


This Masterpiece is Only Mine

by GettheSalt



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternative Universe - FBI, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mild Blood, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 83,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2652257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GettheSalt/pseuds/GettheSalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship. Romance. Espionage. Mystery. Pining. Murder. Coffee grinds. Los Angeles is no stranger to any, and Weaver's Coffee manages, beyond expectations, to be a hub for all of it. Whether it's the baristas doubling as masters students and interns, or the customers doubling as FBI agents and hacktivists, everyone brings one or more of those aspects through the door. And all Anne Weaver wanted was to run a quaint, mildly successful business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

“Leo?”

That's how it starts. Not with a bang, not with a yell, not with a disgruntled customer setting down his coffee on the counter hard enough that it splashes back. No, Leo Fitz's bad-slash-weird week didn't start with anything quite that dramatic.

It started with his boss standing in the doorway to the coffee shop, sandwich board in her hands rather than the sidewalk, and a confused frown on her face.

He wished he could feign that level of confusion. Unfortunately, with one quick glance to the girls in the corner, hiding their smiles behind their cups, he knew he wouldn't be able to. The sandwich board thing wasn't ever supposed to happen. Never, not ever, he had warned them. Was it a hilarious idea? Sure. Did it have merit as an idea that wouldn't result in him potentially losing his job? Absolutely not. Absolutely, positively _not,_ and that was why he had done his damnedest to shoo the idea from Skye Poots' and Jemma Simmons' minds the second they'd gotten it in their heads that it might work.

“Yeah, Anne?” he managed to get out, giving her his best smile. Or, at least, the best that he could manage. Anne Weaver was a fair and tolerant woman, but, considering their shop was on a fairly busy street, and there was probably definitely profanity on that sandwich board, Fitz had his doubts about how far her tolerance would stretch. At least she was still calling him 'Leo', and not 'Leopold'. Aside from his mother, his boss was the only one who regularly used any variation of his first name. Most others called him by his surname – it lent itself well to being a nickname. Also like his mother, however, Anne tended to use his full name when she was truly disappointed in him. That had only happened once before, when he had taken it upon himself to try and fix the espresso machine during business hours, forgetting that stray parts might fly off and hit a customer. Or two.

Hopefully his full first name wasn't about to pass her lips a second time.

“The board looks a bit... interesting, this evening.”

“Does it?”

God, he was fumbling this already.

Anne stepped into the shop, nodding to Jemma and Skye, before waving a beckoning hand. It was 10:45 at night, and, aside from the two of them, the tables and counters were empty of any other patrons. The shop would be closing in another hour, and Fitz's shiftmate, Darcy Lewis, was already in the back, cleaning things for the night. If he listened hard enough, he'd be able to hear her chatting away at her phone, and, maybe, if her best friend, Jane Foster, was feeling chatty, he'd hear the tinny strains of her voice coming through the speakerphone.

But, for now, it was only Fitz, Jemma, Skye, and Anne, who was turning around the board, and raising her eyebrows at the three of them.

Instead of the welcoming, punny, or deep quotes that normally took up the board, there was a crude drawing of what Fitz imagined was supposed to be him. And, next to that, in Skye's rounded handwriting, was a proclamation:

 

> _TODAY YOUR BARISTA IS_
> 
>   1. _Hella fucking gay_
>   2. _Desperately single_
> 

> 
> _FOR YOUR DRINK TODAY I RECOMMEND:_
> 
> _You give him your number._

 

“ _Ohmygod_.” Fitz breathed, feeling the pit of his stomach tighten and than drop away. That was so, so much worse than he had expected it to be. Mostly because of the 'desperately single' implication. Skye and Jemma had shown up, mysteriously smug, about an hour and a half earlier. That meant that the customers they'd had between then and now – roughly seven – had all seen that board. No wonder that one guy had hung back from the counter while his girlfriend ordered for them.

“I take that to mean that you didn't know that the board had been... Personalized.” Anne said, her tone light.

Fitz started to shake his head, then stopped, raising his hands in a shrug. “Well, no, I wouldn't exactly say I didn't know...” he shot Jemma and Skye a look. “There had been noise made about it, but I thought I'd made my request clear that it not happen...”

“You never explicitly said not to do it. You just said you'd rather we not put your phone number on it,” Skye countered. “Big difference.”

“I said it was a bad idea!”

“Regardless!” Anne cut in, looking at each of them in turn. “Girls, I appreciate your business savvy, and your... care for Leo. However, I really have to ask that it not take up business-related signage. Especially not with profanity.”

“So, if we hadn't put the f-bomb on there...” Skye started, trailing off to gauge Anne's reaction. What she got was a continued flat stare. “Right, got it. No more pimping for Fitz on the sandwich board.”

“That would be preferred, yes,” Anne answered, smiling, finally. “Leo, could you put this in the back? I'll have Donnie and Seth fix it up tomorrow morning when we open up. I just came in to put in the coin order for week after next, since I forgot this morning. I'll be doing that quick and then I'll be heading out again.”

Fitz nodded, taking the sandwich board from her. “I'm sorry, Anne,” he offered, as the door to the kitchen opened. “I promise it won't happen again.”

Anne waved a hand. “It wasn't anything major. You didn't know about it, so it can't have been like that very long.”

“What can't have been like what?” Darcy asked, interjecting herself into the conversation with a hand on Fitz's shoulder, looking around him at the sandwich board. “Holy shit!”

“Darcy.” Anne cautioned, heading for the kitchen, and beyond that, her office.

“Right, sorry, no cussing on the floor. Still, holy crap.” The brunette grinned at Fitz's apparent best friends, holding up her free hand for high fives. “Nicely worded, ladies! He hasn't been in tonight, yet, though, which is a total bummer. I bet that woulda gotten him handing over the digits.” She glanced back to make sure Anne was out of earshot, then added. “But now that Anne's seen it, we have to abort Operation FBI Hottie.”

“All right!” Fitz set down the sandwich board, turning to glare at them all. “I don't know when you all decided that 'FBI Hottie' and I were a thing that had to happen, but I'm telling you right now that...” He trailed off, eying the headlights in the parking lot. The headlights that belonged to a black Dodge Charger.

A little later than usual, but somehow, still on time.

Fitz kicked the sandwich board over and down onto the floor, planting his foot on it firmly, ignoring the knowing smirks on the faces of his best friends and co-worker.

“I'll just be washing the counter,” Darcy offered.

“We'll just be going back to our mochas,” Jemma added, leading Skye back to their table in the corner.

Like he wasn't going to see all that through the front of the shop before he even got out of the Charger. It wasn't even subtle. Not from where Fitz stood.

Then again, he was deeply invested in how things looked to FBI Hottie – also known as FBI Special Agent Grant Ward. It stood to reason that, on the outside, the break of their huddle had simply looked like friends and coworkers going back to their respective places so that a customer could be properly served.

That's what Fitz hoped, anyway.

Ward had dark hair, a square jaw, and he was tall, over six feet, and imposing. He would have been even if he wasn't wearing his FBI jacket. Tonight he just happened to be, which told Fitz that he must have just gotten off of field work. Probably tracking dangerous criminals, or saving hostages in a gas station. The life of a L.A. FBI agent had to be full of outlandish and action-movie-esque situations like that.

It probably also came with something of a modest paycheck, or he wasn't a flashy spender, because Grant Ward just so happened to be Skye's across-the-hall neighbour.

“Good evening,” Fitz greeted, same as every night. “How can I help you?” He didn't need to ask that question. The answer was always the same.

“Large black coffee, please, thanks,” Ward answered. He looked tired, tonight. Maybe he needed the coffee more than usual. Maybe tonight's work really had been a hostage situation at a gas station, with minimal hostages, but somewhere like an IHOP.

“Absolutely.” Fitz answered, grabbing the pot to start pouring. “Anything else?”

“That'll be it.”

“All right,” Fitz set the coffee down on the counter, and pressed a few keys on the register. “That'll be $2.50”

Ward handed him a ten, and picked up the coffee. “Thanks, Fitz. Have a good night.” Without waiting for his change, he nodded and turned back to the door, heading out to his car and, presumably, home. Fitz nodded back, processed his sale through and dumped the change in the tip jar, then stepped back and bent down to pick up the sandwich board.

“Yo, Fitzbot 2000. You sure you don't some new scripts to download or something?”

“Yes, Darcy, I'm positive,” he deadpanned, straightening up with the board in hand. “That joke wasn't funny the last five times any of you made it.”

“But it still holds true, Fitz,” Jemma argued gently. “You say the exact same thing to him, every night. He used your name tonight--”

“--Shockingly, the FBI agent can read a nametag--”

“--And you didn't even react.”

“Because it's not like he did anything all that exceptional,” Fitz countered, moving towards the kitchen door to put the sandwich board away. “Plenty of people a day use my name when they come in here. They can read nametags.”

“But it's FBI Hottie,” Skye pointed out. “That was an opening, you could have said anything, literally anything, and what did you do?” She stared blankly forward, and gave a jerky nod.

“Point,” Darcy agreed. “How's he supposed to know you're hot to trot when you're giving him less personality than C3P0?”

“Granted,” Skye cut across, waving a hand through the air. “He's pretty much a robot himself, but he has an excuse. He's a federal terminator.”

“You, Leo Fitz,” Jemma added. “Are a barista. You're supposed to be chipper and friendly and chatty.”

Anne chose that moment to come out of the kitchen, and the conversation abruptly dropped. She glanced between the four of them while she headed towards the door Ward had just left through, and let out a quiet chuckle.

“I would pretend like I couldn't hear what was being discussed through the incredibly thin kitchen door, but, Leo, they do have a point.” She smiled at him as she pushed open the door. “Not that I'm encouraging you to flirt with our customers, but him giving you his number _was_ the recommended drink of the day, according to the sandwich board. I don't think you convinced him to try that recommendation.”

With that, she stepped out of the shop, leaving Fitz with three girls howling with laughter in unison. He rolled his eyes and left them to it, walking into the kitchen to set the sandwich board in its place.

Just because he had some kind of weird crush on the guy didn't mean that they had a point.

It would be really nice to have his number, but it didn't mean that they had a point.

He mentally kicked himself in the ass every time he gave the guy a robotic nod.

But it didn't mean that they had a point.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye gets home from her evening at the coffee shop with Jemma, and has a chat with her roommates.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Ha-ha, Miles,” Skye shot back, closing the apartment door behind her. After leaving the coffeeshop, she and Jemma had walked around the downtown core aimlessly, waiting for Fitz's shift to be over so he and Jemma could head back to their apartment, just chatting. They did that a lot. Something about it was ridiculously, remarkably calming for Skye. Jemma, her best friend, had that effect on a lot of people. It was a good thing. The girl was going through med school, looking to be a doctor. Skye often told her that she didn't have the manner to be a doctor; she was too gentle, too kind, and any doctor that Skye had ever met was detached and cold. It was a joke, mostly.

“Actually, I was referring to...” Miles trailed off, and Skye turned from taking off her jacket to see what he was indicating. When she did, she whistled low, taking in the scene on their couch.

“What'd you do this time, Hunter?”

Lance Hunter. Miles Lydon and Skye's third roommate. A good guy, if his morals were a little skewed, and he had a penchant for, well, whining. Notorious, within these four walls, for still being in love with his 'demonic' ex-wife, as much as he denied it, and notorious, far and wide outside the four walls, for being something of a skirt-chaser. Judging by the bag of frozen peas pressed to his cheek, that hobby hadn't turned as advantageous as it normally did.

“I didn't _do_ anything,” Lance argued, scowling at her. Skye grinned and finished hanging her jacket up in the closer before kicking off her boots. “Girlfriend of the girl I was hitting on, on the other hand...”

“Oooh,” Skye winced, though her grin lingered. “You angled after a chick's chick tonight? You normally know better than to try making room for yourself where there isn't any.” She walked over to the couch, nudging Miles over with her foot to wiggle herself into the space between the two of them. Both were slouched; Miles because he was gaming, Lance because he was moping.

“She was giving me _the eyes_ ,” Lance grumbled. “You know. The _come hither_ eyes, and everything. Usually if they're not into me, they don't,” he waved at empty air, agitated. “Act like they're into me.”

“Wow,” Skye dragged the word out, regarding Lance like she was looking at a brilliant prodigy. Quiet the opposite. “You've never heard of bisexuality, have you?”

“Yes, I have.” Lance spared a second to give her an annoyed look.

“Must have forgotten about it, then,” Miles put in, not taking his eyes from the television screen. “Otherwise you wouldn't have tried anything.”

Skye pointed in Miles direction, acknowledging his point. Lance rolled his eyes at both of them. “Obviously the girlfriend wasn't at the table while she was giving me the eyes. She happened to show up while I was asking the girl if she wanted to have a little fun tonight.”

“Ouch,” Miles and Skye commented in unison.

“You could try and have a little class, every now and then,” Skye suggested, shifting and pulling her legs in until she was sitting cross-legged between the two men. “I know that you think that the accent is going to do all the work for you, but some girls aren't going to fall for you just _sounding_ like you're a good, classy guy.”

“You suggesting he actually _is_ a good, classy guy?” Miles asked, then cursed under his breath, the screen slowly turning red, the graphic sliding down the screen, mimicking blood. “I had that guy...”

“Apparently not,” Skye reached across him, picking up his neglected beer bottle, settling back to take a swig of it.”As for Lance being a good, classy guy...”

The man gave her a level look, waiting for the final line. Skye weighed her options carefully. On one hand, she argued that, no, he wasn't a good, classy guy. On the other, she handwaved the whole thing and passed it off as a joke.

“You're a good guy.” She decided, giving Lance a genuine smile. “Classy... Well, I don't think that's something either of you have or will ever master.” She belched. “Or me.”

Lance snorted, pulling the bag of peas away from his face. The skin was pinked, from the cold, but under it Skye could still see the faint outside of a handprint. She winced, reaching out to touch his cheekbone, just above the mark. “She hit you pretty hard...”

“She was pretty pissed,” Lance filled in, pulling away from her touch. “Izzy's not gonna like me showing up for work with a handprint bruise in the morning.” Lance's boss, Isabelle Hartley, owner of Hartley's Contracting, probably wouldn't mind all that much. The work that they did was varied, and didn't require a whole lot of schmoozing for their customer base. When it did, Izzy was the one to do it. Lance, his buddies Idaho and Mack, and the other guys tended to hang back and smile pretty, to complete the picture. A totally capable and polite work crew behind a capable and intelligent woman whose reputation proceeded her. There was a reason the company was so successful, and it wasn't because Lance didn't show up with angry handprints on his face.

“Then keep this on,” Skye ordered, pushing his hand to put the bag of peas back. “It'll at least make it less likely to stick around.” Lance grumbled, but complied, both of them settling in while Miles restarted the level of his game he'd just failed.

“What about you?” he asked, guiding his character through a dirty, badly lit corridor. “What did you get up to tonight? You're pretty late getting back.”

“Yeah,” Skye acknowledged, taking another swig of Miles' beer. “I went out with Jemma.”

“Went out, or _went out_?” Lance asked. Skye shot him a look, finding the smirk she'd fully expected on his face.

“Went out and had coffee at the shop and bothered Fitz.”

That got Lance's attention diverted. His eyes slid to their apartment door for a second, and then back to Skye, one eyebrow raised in interest. “And how's he doing?”

“Not bad,” Skye said, offhandedly, relaxing again. “Might be a little bit peeved with me, right now. I definitely vandalised the sandwich board.”

“'Hella fucking gay'?” Miles asked, glancing away from the screen for a second.

“Yup.”

Both boys laughed, Lance clapping his hand against his thigh. “Very nice. But, I guessing because I didn't run into the guy in the hallway when Agent Scary got home, it didn't go how you hoped?”

Skye shook her head, frowning with annoyance. “No. Anne came by because she forgot to do something earlier. Caught the board, and made him put it in the back, _just_ before Ward got there.” Her frustration was evident in her tones, she knew. And justified. They'd been trying for weeks, now, to take matchmaking for Fitz into their own hands. It hadn't been easy to get him to agree, and technically, he still hadn't. The sandwich board had been their first stab at really, aggressively trying to push the two together. “So, no, it didn't go how we hoped, _and_ Fitz got all,” she put on a cheery, empty tone. “Customer service drone about it all. The guy left him a seven dollar tip, and he was just like, totally robotic about it. No deviation from the good little barista script.”

“That sucks.” Miles commented.

“Tell me about it,” Skye huffed. “So, I don't know what to try next.”

“Go across the hall and tell him that your cute barista friend is hungry for his cock?” Lance suggested, without the hint of sarcasm. Skye made a face, her nose crinkling in disgust.

“Only as a last resort.”

“Hmm,” Lance hummed, nodding. “Well, let me know when you hit 'last resort' conditions. I kind of want to see the guy's face when you unload that nugget on him.”

“Me too,” Miles interjected. “Guy's always so together, bet that'd shake him a little.” He grinned, tapping the controller with more force than was strictly necessary. On screen, a six limbed monster blew apart in a rain of guts and gore. It was truly inspiring.

“Seems like a win-win situation to me,” Lance said, pulling the bag of peas away to prod at his own cheek. “We get some amusement, and Fitzy-boy gets a good screw. Happiness all around.”

“Or,” Skye countered, raising her her hand. “He decides I'm mentally unwell, but also decides to avoid the shop, just to be safe. And then Fitz pines and whines and Jemma gets peeved with me for going to far and indirectly putting her on ice cream and complaint duty.”

Lance blew a raspberry. “No, Jemma wouldn't get peeved with you. Little Miss doesn't know how to get peeved with you. She'd probably just 'Oh, Skye, I wish you hadn't done that, but I forgive you because you have such lovely hair and beautiful eyes.'” He dropped the high-pitched tone he'd put on, but gave Skye a sarcastic look in its place. “Fitz isn't the only one who's beating bushes.”

“I'm not beating bushes,” Skye argued back, though it wasn't as solid sounding of an argument as she would have liked. It lacked conviction, for the very reason that it was a lie. She was beating bushes, and she knew it. She knew it, and Miles and Lance knew it. It was some kind of weird irony that she had ended up renting an apartment with two of her on-again, off-again lays. She and Miles had once been something, something she'd thought was pretty special. At the end of the day, though, she'd ended up thinking something else about their relationship. They were better friends, better co-workers, than lovers. It was a good thing that he had agreed, because she hadn't wanted to move out of their apartment. Lance had come into the picture a little over two years ago. He and Skye had gotten tossed in together, wound up tight, and then peetered out. Again, there was no bad blood. It was surprising, because Lance certainly held a lot towards his ex-wife.

Then again, that was probably because, unlike the women he slept with, he was still deeply in love with the woman. Not that Skye would point that out. At least, not more often than was necessary. The fact remained, though, that she and Lance were able to remain friends. About eight months back, his lease had come up, and he'd not been keen to keep up living where he was, with people who were, according to him, essentially strangers. That was when Skye had offered for him to move in with them. The apartment that she and Miles had was a three bedroom, and though the third had always been meant to be an office, they'd never actually converted it. Their laptops were portable around the apartment, and their computer desks formed a useful little alcove in the living area. So, the third room was open, if Lance wanted it.

And he had.

It was an advantageous living situation for all three of them, really. Lance and Miles got along better than she had expected. There was also the fact that if any of them were ever lacking for any kind of physical outlet for things, it was easy to fall into bed together. It was a very advantageous living situation.

“Do you actually believe yourself when you say that?” Lance asked, sprawling out on the couch a little more. “Because, I gotta tell you, you don't sound too convincing.”

“It's because she isn't convinced either.”

Skye dug her elbow into Miles' side, earning a loud, “Fucking ow!” From him, before he mashed the pause button on his game. That was never a good sign. Skye weighed the merits of bailing out, then and there. It would be better than hanging around and having to sit through another one of their discussions about her feelings for Jemma.

She really wished she'd never had that drunken pining session with them at Christmas.

“Listen, Skye, all we're saying is that you're into Jemma, and she's definitely into you, too.” Miles started. He was doing his best to put on his empathetic face, and Skye appreciated that. More than she appreciated those words that got her hopes up, again. 'She's definitely into you, too'. Skye could hope, and, maybe, it was the truth, but the fact of the matter was that Jemma was truly in love with her work. She was so in love with her work, however, that she'd stated she didn't have time to dedicate to building a relationship with someone. Maybe, when she'd achieved her goal, then she would go out and find someone to be with, but she just couldn't give up time learning someone and creating a relationship with them when she had so much work to do to get her degree. “If you're going to give Fitz shit for dragging his feet hitting on Ward, you have to admit you're being a bit of a hypocrite.”

“It'll pass,” Skye said with a shrug, finishing the beer in her hand. “It always does.”

“How long have you and Jemma known each other?” Lance interrupted. “Something like, five, six year, right? And, I mean, my drunken memory isn't that great but I'm pretty sure you said you'd wanted to...” he trailed off. Skye's exact wording, as relayed back to her, had been 'go down on her so long that I drown'. In this situation, it seemed, even Lance wasn't going to repeat that and dirty down the conversation. “Enjoy her company, and that you had wanted to for-- ”

“--Like two years, yeah, I know.” Skye filled in.

“So, then,” Lance leaned on her, singsonging his words. “What's the hold up?”

Skye shoved him back, trying not to smile, and give them the win they were looking for. “A little thing called her medical degree.”

Lance blew another raspberry.

“What he said,” Miles agreed.

“Can we just go back to mocking Lance for hitting on a bi-chick while her girlfriend was around?” Skye complained, shouldering them both back. Miles rolled his eyes, unpausing his game and getting back into it.

“Hypocrite.”

“Shut up and watch your left,” Skye quipped. “There's some big ugly in the shadows there.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip imparts some knowledge onto Ward on a morning coffee run. Trip's girlfriend, with her unknown profession, makes a good subject-changer.

There were people who moved to Los Angeles to get into the entertainment industry. People would come out to the city, the hub of the American entertainment world, to make their dreams come true. Aspiring actors and actresses were common. Common enough that no one could really call it out as a stereotype, because chances were that if you threw a rock in a crowd, you would be able to hit one. After that, it was the musicians. There was always the chance to be discovered for both acting and music anywhere else in the country, but the city still attracted its share of bands, and solo artists, looking to track down the biggest label mogul for their genre, and woo them with their sound. Then, there were people who moved to L.A. because of the entertainment industry, not because they belonged to it, but because they had an insatiable need to stalk and gawk at the rich and famous. And, that wasn't counting the people who came, who were in the industry, who weren't set to strut in front of the camera, or take to the stage. The ones who did the writing, directing, hair and makeup, set building, prop building, and costume designing. So on, and so forth. It was a city synonymous with entertainment, and all that it encompassed.

The entertainment industry had not, however, been the reason that Grant Ward came out to L.A. Without leaving the country, or going to Hawaii or Alaska, it was the furthest away that he could get from his hometown of Plymouth, Massachusetts. It also happened to have a free spot in its FBI Violent Crimes Squad, one that Grant was all too happy to fill when he graduated from Quantico.

Far away from home, and with an open placement for the job he deemed as his dream career. Los Angeles was perfect. Even with the wannabe starlets cramming themselves in front of the counter at the Starbucks across the street from the office.

“It's six in the morning,” Triplett grumbled quietly next to him, in spite of his smile. “Don't they have beauty sleep to be getting?”

“You have to get up early if you're going to catch an agent's eye,” Ward replied, just as quietly, but without the smile. He didn't know how Trip did that. The guy was perpetually in a good mood; at least, most of the time. The two of them had been partners for the last five years, and in that time, the only instances where Ward had seen Trip off his cheery game, when they weren't in the field, were limited to two. Maybe three, but that third one was debatable. Maybe that was why their unit leader, Victoria Hand, had put them together from Trip's first day. She needed someone to play off Ward, and, he would admit, they got on really well as a team.

“Agent like you and me, or agent like,” Trip slipped his sunglasses back on, and put his phone up to his ear. “'I make six digits a year being a dick'?”

Ward gave him a crooked smile. “That second one.”

“Well, then they're in the right place. Pretentious coffee shop, good place to find a pretentious potential employer.”

Ward paused, face scrunching in confusion. “Man, you're the one who said we _had_ to come here before we went to the office.”

“I know,” Trip replied. “I'm a little bit pretentious myself.” He grinned at Ward, fully comfortable in what he was saying. “When it comes to coffee, anyway. I'm a man of exquisite tastes.”

Ward rolled his eyes, glancing over as one of the starlets laughed, loud and obnoxious. “I haven't heard you complain about Weaver's.”

“Nah, man, I wouldn't complain about Weaver's coffee,” Trip answered, crossing his arms as they moved further up in line. “Just between you and me, I think that place is a damn shade better than Starbucks. But it's fifteen minutes away in good traffic, and Starbucks is here, now. So, here I am, signing away my soul for Americano.” He gave Ward a slow look, eyebrows lifting in suspicion. “Why are you bringing up Weaver's, anyway? You're not becoming a hipster snob on me, are you? Starbucks is too mainstream, so you'd rather we battle traffic to go get the underground coffee?”

“No,” Ward said, maybe too quickly. Definitely too quickly by the way the corner of Antoine's mouth twitched. “I just like the place. The owner's nice, staff's nice, coffee and food are good. I wouldn't want it to get forced out by Starbucks. I like paying less than $3 for a decent cup of coffee.”

“You know that old line 'me thinks the lady doth protest too much'?”

“You know that old line 'I know I'm pretty but I'm not a lady'?”

Trip laughed, bumping his shoulder against Ward's. “At least you admit you're pretty. You and me? Damn prettiest partners the FBI's ever seen.” He stepped aside to let a trio of girls pass them and head out the door. “My point still stands, though. You haven't been there for a while. You getting withdrawal, Agent?”

“I'm getting coffee now,” Ward pointed out, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the food case.

“You know that wasn't what I was getting at,” countered Trip. He had a point, and that was the most annoying thing. The whole problem with the two of them being such good partners was that Ward felt some kind of brotherhood with the guy. It meant that when they got together for beers, he'd talk with Trip about a lot of things. Not the intimate details of his childhood, but things like who his favourite sports teams were, and where his attractions tended to lay. It meant that Trip had gotten to know him, over the years, and it meant that Trip had an acute understanding for when the other agent was appreciative of another person. For a while, there hadn't been anybody. Ward had been far too focused on his work, on their work, that he hadn't taken the time to actually look at the people around him and think, 'well, they're pretty attractive'. Last one had been a redhead. Thankfully, Ward hadn't gone down that path. Sure, she had seemed alluring and everything, but at the end of the day, from everything he'd heard, and the police retelling of their findings, she wasn't to be trifled with. That woman could snare a man's attention and infer consent for any number of things. One date had been more than enough. Agent May, one of the more senior agents in their division, had been the one to warn him off her. Grant still felt he owed her one for that.

The point was, though, Ward hadn't even realized that he'd been getting attached to a certain barista until Triplett had pointed it out. The coffee shop was close to his apartment, and Ward had taken to going there after his shifts. If Trip was coming over for poker night, or to watch the game, he'd often stop with him. It was after the seventh or eighth time of doing it that Trip had looked at him over a paper box of fried noodles, narrowed his eyes and asked, “You sweet on that Scottish barista?”

Leave it to Ward to not have noticed he was harbouring a tiny little crush on the guy. Ever since Trip had pointed it out, though, Ward had become a lot more observant of him. And a lot more observant to his own reactions to the barista. His name was Fitz, he was often working at the coffee shop, usually the night shifts, which was lucky for Ward. He was polite, and even though he had to know Ward's very simple order off by heart, he always made a point of asking. And, if Ward was right, he was an engineering student. He'd once swung by the shop close to closing, and found Fitz pouring over an engineering textbook with a yellow highlighter in hand. That was speculation, of course. He'd never actually asked. Sure, he could plug the guy's surname into the FBI database, sift him out of the results, and learn everything there was to know about him, but that was misuse of government resources, and would require Ward actively being aware of how scary their government was. It was a fact he tried to forget about from time to time.

“I know what you were getting at,” Ward answered, his smile not reaching his eyes.

“So, you're just choosing to be difficult about it.” Trip supplied, to which Ward nodded. “When's the last time you went over there?”

Ward thought about not answering. Ward thought about lying. Ward opened his mouth and said, “Last night.”

Trip grinned again. They were one person back from the front of the counter, now, and Ward would very much like if things could hurry along so that he didn't have to have this conversation. The sooner they got back across the street, onto FBI property, the better, because Trip would drop the subject. “Did something happen? Is that why you're all about Weaver's, this morning?”

“I went in, I got coffee, I went home,” Ward reported, keeping his tone even. “Nothing special. Like I said, I just like the place.”

“Mhmm,” Trip narrowed his eyes, sizing Ward up. “Bet you left him a five dollar tip.”

Ward paused. He didn't have to answer the question; there wasn't even a question. Still, there was something about giving an honest answer in this conversation, and keeping up the camaraderie between himself and the other. “It was more like seven...”

Trip's eyes went wide. “Seven dollar tip.”

“...Fifty.”

Trip laughed, then, shaking his head. “You gave him a seven-fifty tip on a coffee that costs less than $3.” He stepped up to the counter. “Hi, good morning, uh. Can I get two large Americanos for my friend and I? One with one milk, the other no room.” The barista nodded, and punched in their order. Like Ward the night before, Trip handed over a ten dollar bill and waved off the change, the two of them moving to the side slightly to wait for their simple coffees. “You've got it bad, man.” The other agent finished, like his previous train of thought hadn't been interrupted by ordering coffee.

“I don't 'got it bad',” Ward argued, taking the no room coffee as it was handed to him, and stepping back. He waited a beat for Antoine to be handed his, before leading the way out of the shop, and towards the crossing to go to the office. “He's kind of cute, kind of hot, seems nice. I like him, but I'm not writing his name with little hearts all over my paperwork.”

“Because Hand would kill you,” Trip pointed out.

“Because I'm not in elementary school, and it's an attraction, it's not like I'm planning a future with the guy. All I know about him is he's an engineering student who makes coffee.”

“And that's a perfectly good amount of knowledge to go into this with,” Trip said, pressing the button for them to cross the street. “Next step is saying 'Hi, I'm Grant, here's my number'. Simple as that. If you want, your first date, you can double with Raina and I. We'll be on our best behaviour.”

Ward held up a hand, shaking his head. “Uh, no. No way. The last thing I want to do if I'm asking this guy out is to take him to dinner with your weirdly personable girlfriend. I still don't even know what she does for a living.”

“Hey, man, I take offense to that,” Trip said, putting on an affronted face as they set out across the road. “Raina's nice.”

“And I think she sees people's souls.”

“Not a bad thing.”

“Still a little creepy.”

“No, you making googly eyes at this guy through the shop window is creepy,” Trip shot back, but there was no malice in his words. He and Ward had been over Raina's quirks before. She was a beautiful woman, and she carried herself with an undeniable air of strength and intelligence. She also happened to occasionally give Ward the feeling that she knew a whole lot more than she was letting on.

And he didn't know what she did for a living. Something high-end, he suspected.

“I don't make googly eyes at him,” Ward sighed.

“Not yet,” Trip said ominously, then nudged him again, his grin returning as they ascended the steps to the front doors of the FBI building. “I'm just saying. Consider being a little more friendly with him. Maybe there's something there.” He opened the door for Ward. “Maybe it's something good.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye enlists Fitz's help with finding Miles' birthday gift in time for the weekend, and extends the invitation to Lance's boss.

“Fitz? Have you seen my sweater? The navy one, with the lighter blue top half?” Jemma called, pushing through the clothes in her closet and frowning, damp hair curling around her shoulders. “I can't find it!”

“You mean _my_ navy sweater with the lighter blue top half?” Fitz called back, from somewhere around the vicinity of the kitchen. “Yes. It's in my closet.”

Jemma winced, sheepish, at her closet, and stepped out into the hallway. Fitz was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living area, idly stirring a spoon through his tea, an eyebrow lifted in challenge. “Is that  _ your  _ sweater?” she asked conversationally. “I could have sworn it was mine. My mistake!” She stepped backwards, inching towards his room with one of her sweetest smiles on. “But... Could I borrow it? Just for today, I swear.”

Fitz smiled, waving with the spoon. “Yes, yes. You might as well keep it.” Jemma walked into his room, listening as she opened his closet and flicked through his hangers, looking for the aforementioned sweater. “You've worn it more than I have in the last year, anyway.”

Jemma's hand closed on the sweater and she carefully removed it from the closet, walking from the room while she undid the buttons to slip it on. “Really?”

Fitz nodded, finishing taking a sip of his tea. “It's a nice sweater. It deserves to be worn.”

“This,” Jemma said, pulling the sweater on over her polka-dotted blouse. “Is just one of the many perks I've found there are to being your best friend.”

The two of them had been friends for years. More than Jemma could really narrow down, though, if she guessed right, it had all started somewhere around the eighth grade. The fact of the matter was that they were both utterly brilliant. Scientifically speaking, that was. They had also been the tops of their classes, going into high school. That had led to a rivalry of sorts, before one of their teachers, Mr. Vaughn, had partnered them together. That was when they had realized that, together, they were absolutely the most brilliant force to be reckoned with in the school. Including the upperclassmen. When it came to the sciences. Vaughn had insisted that they would bond over their mutual status as being new to the country; Fitz had taken great offense to that, his family having come to the United States from Scotland when he was three, and therefore being far from 'new' to the country. Jemma's family, too, had come to the country when she was six. Mutual love and adoration of the sciences, competitive streaks miles wide, and a mutual distaste for Mr. Vaughn had been the first building block of their friendship.

And it had only grown from there.

Around their first years in university – Fitz pursuing engineering, while Jemma herself pursued the medical arts – they had finally stopped beating around the bush, and tried what everyone, themselves included, had suspected they'd been moving towards for years.

Dating.

It had been...

Well, it had been good, really. Jemma had no major complaints. Fitz was an excellent kisser, and an equally attentive lover. But, after a year, they both came to the conclusion that it just wasn't working the way they'd expected. They'd already been so close, adding the extra layer had seemed like the next step.

It had turned out to be a next step they hadn't needed, and letting go of it had, thankfully, not hurt their relationship.

Given that they still shared an apartment, that was a damn good thing.

“I try to give you at least one new perk a week,” Fitz joked, leading the way into the kitchen, and pointing with his spoon, a drop of liquid falling from it. “I made you tea.” He wiped the drop from the floor with the toe of his sock. “That's not a new perk, I was just being nice.”

“Which _is_ a new perk,” Jemma teased, earned herself an unimpressed look from the other. She laughed, picking up the mug he'd pointed to. “Thank you, Fitz.”

“You're welcome,” he replied, with far more umph than was strictly necessary. “I just slaved over a hot kettle for three minutes, your gratitude is appreciated.”

“'Slaved',” Jemma repeated, walking over to their balcony, sipping her tea. On the way over she picked up her tablet from the edge of the kitchen counter, as well as an apple from the bag they had sitting on the table. “You make it sound like you don't do this every day.”

“Only five days a week,” Fitz corrected. He followed after her onto the balcony, taking a seat across from her at the small glass-top table.

“Next thing, you'll be pointing out that it's mostly nights, and not days, anyway,” she quipped, flipping open the cover and turning on the tablet to peruse the morning news.

“Well...”

Jemma kicked him gently under the table, getting a laugh from the other. He'd carried out a plate of toast with him, and dug into it now, eyes on her tablet, reading the headlines upside down. This was, more often than not, their morning routine. Breakfast on the balcony – because what was the point of a balcony if you didn't use it for meals now and again? - and checking the morning news. There was never any shortage of it, given where they lived.

“What are your plans for today?” Jemma asked, running her fingertip over the screen, flipping the page of the digital newspaper. “After class, of course.”

“Meeting with Skye for a while,” Fitz answered, around the toast in his mouth. Jemma gave him an exasperated look, and he lifted a hand. Not to apologise, but to cover his mouth while he continued talking. “I'm meeting her at Izzy's place, and I think we're getting lunch, and then she wanted my help shopping for a birthday present for Miles.” He rolled his eyes. “Because I'm the ideal shopping consultant for someone who runs Minecraft mods to play as a zombie Pigman.”

Skye's roommate and on-again, off-again flame, Miles Lydon, was no stranger to the two of them. They'd met him early on in their friendship with Skye. For a while, it hadn't seemed like things were going to be friendly between the three of them. Miles was brash, and had a certain level of arrogance that just rubbed them the wrong way. For a computer programmer, he embodied the smug stereotype. Somewhere along the line, though, that mutual acceptance of the others' existence had turned into tolerance, and then, strangely, friendship. They had all spent many an evening at the apartment Skye and Miles shared (now with Lance Hunter), and eventually they'd all fallen into line as friends. Skye was happy about that. She didn't like having her worlds at odds.

Still, Fitz held a certain level of distaste, one that Simmons quietly shared, for Miles' Minecraft tendencies.

“Sounds like it will be a fun afternoon,” Jemma said, her smile tight. Not because she was unamused, but rather, quite the opposite. “How'd you get roped into that?”

“Ah,” Fitz took another bite of toast. “I happened to be there when she suddenly realized his birthday is this weekend.”

“Ah.” A nod. “And you took pity on her poor, absent-minded soul?”

“Something like that?” Fitz answered. “More like I was pressed into service because she refused to go on her own and I was the only one there, right that second, to bully into it. You were in class, or else I'm sure she would have called you up on it.”

Jemma ignored the flutter in her stomach. It was far too early in the morning for those kinds of shenanigans, and she wasn't going to start her day off by dwelling on what it meant. Obviously, as a bright, capable young scientist, she had her suspicions.

As a bright, capable young scientist, however, she also had her obligations. Namely, compounding all this school into a degree, and a neat little Ph.D behind her name. There wasn't time to go over the ins and outs of potential feelings and possible crushes.

And crushes were honestly such schoolgirl fancies.

 

 

“Come in with me, I need moral support for this.”

Fitz rolled his eyes, adjusting his bag on his shoulder, before reaching forward to hold the door open for Skye. For being one of the most impulsive and brave people he knew, the girl sure knew when to ask for support. Not that he minded coming into Hartley's with her. It wasn't like he had anything against the place, or the people who worked there. To be fair, he only really knew a handful of them. Lance was one, Mack was another. Those were the only two he would really call friends, rather than acquaintances. Idaho and Izzy were nice people. Izzy was really sweet, motherly, but from what Lance had told him, pretty ruthless when the moment called. Considering she owned the entire contracting company, Fitz supposed that was a good trait to have. Idaho made Fitz laugh, seemed really good at his job. Nice enough guy.

Lance, of course, having been involved with Skye at one point (and some points now and again), had grown on Fitz. He was English, like Jemma, and while he could be something of a child, and whiny, he was nice. His heart was in the right place, in the very least.

Mack was the one that Fitz got along with the best. It had been sort of a rocky thing, but Mack was personable enough. He came into the coffeeshop pretty regularly, and would stay and chat. It turned out that he, like Miles, like Lance, was an avid gamer. He'd introduced Fitz to the hobby as a method of stress relief and focus when his mind got prone to wandering. At first he hadn't seemed fond of Jemma, but they'd evened out. Thankfully, too, because for a while Fitz had wondered if they were ever going to stop with the passive aggressive tactics.

Today, as they walked into the business, Mack was the first one to notice the two of them. Standing well over six feet – Fitz suspected taller than even Grant Ward by a few inches – Mack was a hard guy to miss. The contracting life hadn't left him as a tall waif, either. He could take up a doorway, easily, if he so chose. Lance had told them stories of rival contractors coming around, trying to intimidate Izzy. Not that she needed the back-up, because she was a fully competent businesswoman in her own right, but it just seemed to drive her point home when Mack showed up in the room. Most middle-aged, 5 foot 6 white men didn't feel quite so cocky while being talked into a corner by a rational, calm woman with a big black man leaning against the doorframe to her left. Lance and Idaho just didn't pack quite the same punch as those two did. Lance, Izzy had said, would probably get worked up. Idaho would start uttering threats. When the other contractors came 'round to 'chat' and 'negotiate business and listings', she'd rather Mack be there and say nothing, than Lance and Idaho be there and say literally anything.

“Hey, guys,” he greeted, raising a hand. “What brings you by today?”

“Hoping you'll give this to Lance so I don't have to see him?” Skye asked, holding up a paper bag of McDonald's. “He was still whiny in _text message_ when he told me he forgot his lunch, and kindly reminded me I owed him lunch from two weeks ago.”

Mack laughed, walking over to them to take the bag from Skye. “Yeah, do yourself a favour. He's still in a foul mood over whatever happened last night.”

Fitz frowned, looking between the two of them. “What happened last night?”

Mack grinned. “Oh, you hadn't heard yet?”

“Might be the only person on the planet.” Idaho came through the door from the warehouse, carrying a box of what looked to be paperwork. “File retention company's coming today.” He added, by way of explanation when he saw Fitz and Skye giving the box a quizzical look. It was rare to see anyone but Izzy, or their resident paperwork handler, Sam Koenig, handling the paperwork. If it was all being picked up to go into file retention storage, though, it made sense that Izzy would trust Lance and Idaho with simply gathering the last few months worth to be picked up. “And all day I've been having to listen to Hunter go on, and on, and on, and _on_ \--”

“--Who's going on and on, now?” Mack interrupted. Idaho balanced the box in one arm carefully, flipping the other man off.

“You haven't had to deal with him.”

“I still don't know what happened last night.” Fitz pointed out, genuinely curious. It wasn't unlike Lance to carry on when something mildly upset or annoyed him. The fact that Fitz had escaped hearing about it, thus far, was something of a miracle. Then again, he hadn't actually been on Twitter or Facebook yet today.

“He hit on a chick at the bar who turned out to have a girlfriend,” Mack answered. His grin stayed small until Fitz grinned in return. “Yeah, you can imagine how well that went.”

“Can we all stop making fun of my plight?” Lance begged, loudly, coming through the door Idaho had just emerged from. “How was I supposed to know?”

“You weren't,” Skye said, crossing her arms. “But it's still funny.”

“She's got a point,” Idaho pointed out, setting the box's lid down on it, fully labeled for pick-up. “I think you still got a little bit of a handprint _right_ \--” He leaned in, squinted and gesturing to Lance's cheek, only to get whacked away.

“Knock it off.”

“Touchy touchy,” Skye teased, then pointed at the bag of food in Mack's hand. “We're even now.”

Lance's face lit up, and he came over to join them, taking the bag from Mack. “Thank you, thank you, blessed food. I'm starving.”

“The McDonald's is literally across the street.”

Isabelle Hartley came out of her office, her dark hair tied back, a fond smile on her face as she took in the scene in her reception area. Lance had the common sense to look chagrined at her statement of fact.

“Yeah, but since Idaho and I are working so hard on getting the shipments ready and getting the paperwork out of the back office, I thought I should probably stick around close to the office.”

“Sure, you did,” Izzy said, turning to Fitz and Skye with a warm smile. “Good to see you, kids. It's been a little while. How's everything?”

“Not bad,” Skye said. “You know. Work.”

Skye worked in a temp position at the same software firm where Miles worked. Hopefully, it would become something more when her contract was up. That remained to be seen, however. Especially without the necessary schooling. She'd have to get by on her skills alone, with no diploma boosting her up. Fitz, however, had no doubts it was something she could do. Skye was tenacious when the fancy struck. When it came to computer programming, the fancy seemed to strike pretty hard.

“Oh, how's that going?” Izzy asked.

“Not bad. I think I've got my foot firmly stuck in the door, so there's that,” Skye answered with a proud grin. It was a nice thing to see. Two months back she'd been wringing her hands and anxious that it wasn't going to pan out. “I heard you guys have been busy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Izzy nodded, looking over at Lance and Mack, and then to Idaho. “We've got a few projects on the go, so we've been keeping busy. I actually just got a call asking about hiring us for something else, so things are going good.”

“Working us into the ground,” Mack said. Izzy gave him a flat look, and a second later he cracked a grin. “Nah, it's not been bad. Actually keeping us busy, keeps those two out of trouble.”

“Mostly,” Idaho said. “Let's not forget the trouble Lance got into last night.”

There was a shared groan amongst most of the people gathered in the room, and Skye threw up her hands. “For someone that complains he's been having to listen to him whining all day...”

“Don't get him started,” Izzy warned. “I need him focused on the Gallagher contract prep.”

“I don't whine,” Lance pointed out. Albeit, in a whiny tone. Fitz kept his mouth shut, though he caught Mack's eye, and had to hide a snort of laughter behind a faux-sneeze.

“What brings you two around today?” asked Izzy. “No class today, Mr Engineer?”

“No,” Fitz answered quickly, then made a corrective noise. “Well, not this afternoon, anyway. This morning, I did. My afternoon's dedicated to helping Skye.” Izzy passed a curious, interested look between the two of them. “Miles' birthday is this weekend and Skye has forgotten--”

“--Been busy--”

“--To buy him a gift. So, I'm along for moral support.”

“Ahhh, I understand,” the woman nodded, smiling and leaning on the table. “Well, good luck. I heard you're planning to go out to The Playground for his party, right?”

“That's the plan,” Skye agreed. “You're welcome to come along. I know these guys are coming.” She pointed around the room, a sweeping gesture that took in Mack, Idaho, and, of course, Lance. “Oh, you can bring Tori!”

Izzy's smile widened, and she laughed. “Can you imagine Tori and I in that club? With all of you? The lesbian mothers joke would become a reality. We'd probably wind up renting a van to drive all you drunk morons home in.” Her words were fond, and, really, probably not far off the mark. Not with the way their group of friends tended to go with drinking when birthdays were involved. “I'll see how she feels about it. Depends on how things go at the Bureau this week. I know her division has been busy, so if she's too worn out, it could go either way.”

Isabelle Hartley, on top of being a successful businesswoman with a well-respected business that was generally seen as the realm of men, was also in a long-term, committed relationship with the head of the FBI's Violent Crimes division, Victoria Hand. They'd been together for something like twelve years. Skye had met Tori before, when she'd been Lance's date to the company holiday party. To hear her tell it, the woman embodied the FBI persona. Fitz had never met her, but anyone who made such a nice person as Izzy Hartley happy had to be a good person. In his mind, anyway.

“Well, invite's open,” Skye said. “We should really get going, though. I have no idea what I'm getting him and I don't know if Fitz will like being stuck with me all day and night while I try to find something.”

“You're a brave man, Fitz,” Lance said, crossing his arms and giving Fitz a firm nod. “Taking the womanfolk shopping. God rest your soul.”

“How about you just eat your burger and shut up?” Skye asked, sweetly, before opening her arms in a hug. She gave one to each of the guys, and Izzy, Fitz collecting the same from the boss, and fistbumps from the other three. Then they were on their way.

“So, I'm thinking something to do with Minecraft...”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ward and Trip invite Bobbi over for 'Boys Night', and the group pre-games for Miles' birthday party.

“They're making out back there, don't go in.”

Grant narrowed his eyes slightly, not really looking at the girl with long red-brown hair who'd just come out of the coffeeshop's back room. Her name was Callie, if he remembered right. The guy she'd spoken to, a tall, lanky guy with sandy brown hair, was Ian. The loud barista, Darcy's, boyfriend, if he wasn't mistaken.

He was really glad he wasn't saying any of this out loud. It would have given Trip way too much ammunition, and might have opened the door for way more discussion than he was strictly prepared to have with Bobbi Morse. The two of them were standing beside him, chatting animatedly about something that had been on the midday news. It had been a long week, and when Bobbi had asked about joining them for boys night, he'd been happy to oblige.

Bobbi – Barbara – Morse was a great person. Funny, smart, and skilled, she was an important part of their division. She was also easily one of the easiest people to talk to that Ward had ever met. She was trustworthy, and just had that kind of air about her. It wasn't the first time that she'd joined he and Trip on 'boys night', and it was probably far from the last.

She didn't, however, know about his apparent crush on the Scottish barista at this joint, but she didn't really need to know that. Yet, anyway. The plan was to stop for coffees to jolt their systems. Then they'd order in pizzas, crack open some beers, and either pick a movie or find something else to watch. Friday nights with FBI agents got pretty crazy.

Even Grant's inner voice was sarcastic. It had been a long week.

“This place is cute,” Bobbi commented. “This is the hipster, underground coffeeshop that Trip's been telling me you're obsessed with?”

Grant shot his partner a quick look, getting one in return that said he hadn't said anything beyond that. “I'm not _obsessed_ with it, exactly...”

“Hey, FBI hottie!”

Ward turned back to the counter, the other two doing the same. Darcy was standing on the other side of the register, beaming wide.

“I mean, you're all damn fine, but I meant the regular on the right, there.” She shot him a wink and a set of finger-guns. “Large, black, right?” Ian was hovering behind her, obviously having detoured from going into the back room, to come back to cash instead after Callie's warning. Ward wondered, briefly, who was making out back there, before he shook his head and gave Darcy a small smile.

“That's right.”

“Ohhh, I know it is,” Darcy said, scrawling his order on the side of a cup before handing it to Ian. “What about you two? What can I getcha? I'd say your friend FBI Hottie could recommend something, but literally all he ever gets is black coffee.”

Bobbi laughed, glancing at the board quickly, like she was reaffirming her order. “I'm going to get the caramel iced coffee, large, please? That sounds really good.”

“It _is_ really good _.”_ Darcy confirmed, writing Bobbi's order on a cup before turning around and and shouting. “Seth! Donnie! Quit macking on each other and come help Ian make these drinks!”

Bobbi shot Trip and Ward a quick, utterly amused look, before Darcy turned back around and asked, grinning up at Trip, “And finally, what drink can I get for this tall drink?”

Ward had to wonder if her boyfriend ever got jealous of the fact that his girlfriend was infinitely more smooth than he could ever hope to be.

To his credit, Trip had boundless levels of charm, too, and returned Darcy's big grin with one of his own. “Hazelnut mocha, please and thanks.”

“Also a good choice,” Darcy said, writing on the final cup as the back room door opened and two of the other baristas came out. Seth was the one with the long hair, tied back in a little ponytail. Donnie had close cropped dark hair, and, currently, bright red cheeks as he came forward to take the cup from Darcy. “Nice to see you two,” she said. “You know your shifts aren't over for another fifteen minutes.” She looked up at the trio of FBI agents in front of her. “But, I know the call of young love.”

Ward could have sworn she fixed him with a look.

That was paranoia talking.

“Your drinks will be down the bar, except for you, FBI Hottie.” She handed him the cup, smiling widely. “Have a good night.”

Grant did his best to stand back from the counter while Trip and Bobbi got their drinks, not saying a word. He could see the looks they were giving each other, and him, though. There was a good amount of teasing and questions in his future. All related to his nickname of 'FBI hottie'. He didn't even know he'd _had_ that nickname.

At least they had the presence of mind not to say anything until they were in the parking lot.

“FBI hottie.”

“FBI _hottie_.”

“Yes, thank you both, I heard _her_ the first time.”

Bobbi laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “Damn, Ward, control those cheekbones. They're making the baristas go all crazy for ya!”

“That's what I told him! But, nope, can't listen to his _partner_ ,” Trip rolled his eyes, walking over to his car, on the other side of Ward's, while Bobbi walked to hers.

“Oh, damn, I sense a story here,” Bobbi said, her grin turning sly. “What have you been hiding behind those brown eyes, Grant Ward?”

“Nothing.” He answered. He knew it was too quick, and too firm. Even without her FBI background, Bobbi would have been able to see right through him. And, even without her locking eyes with Trip over the top of Ward's car, he would have known she was on to him. “Can we please not gossip in the parking lot?”

“Does that mean we get to gossip in your apartment?”

Ward gave Bobbi a flat stare.

“Taking that as a yes. Let's hurry up and get over there, shall we?”

 

 

“How many cabs are we going to need?”

Mack looked up, looking around the apartment that was crammed with happy, talking, and, most notably, _drunk_ friends of theirs. The pre-game for Miles' birthday had only started two hours ago, but most of the people who had shown up were already well into being ready to really party. Skye, Miles, and Lance's apartment was nice, and pretty spacious, but it wasn't intended, was never intended, to host house parties. That was why, after a few drinks and things, the plan had been to move to the club. That was still the plan, but there was one minor kink.

Mack and Jemma were the only ones who really seemed to have much of a handle on themselves, and there was no way that Mack's truck was going to fit everyone in the apartment on the drive to the club.

“We could shove them in the back,” Jemma mused, like she was reading his mind. “Tie them all down with rope, and hope the cops don't notice?”

Mack chuckled, shrugging and raising his beer – first and only so far – to take another swig. “Could. I don't know, though. Lance is warbling like a cat on a hot tin roof, so I think they'd catch on to the screaming in the bed of my truck. Then?” He shook his head. “It would all be over, Jemma.”

“So, we're going to need at least two cabs, then, aren't we?” Jemma asked with a wince. Mack nodded, surveying the damage in front of them. “Unless you and Fitz got a stretch limo you're keeping from me, yep, that sounds about right. My truck, two cabs. Should fit everyone.”

She nodded, leaning back on the couch next to him, watching while Fitz and Lance argued in increasingly shrill tones about the song Lance had been warbling a minute ago. Skye was talking with Idaho and Miles, swaying slightly to the music playing from the speaker system. A half dozen other people milled around the apartment, talking and loosely dancing and, mostly, drinking. “Good, because that's how many I called.”

Mack laughed, looking over at Jemma. She was dressed nicely, for a club, at least. Simple black dress and matching heels. Her hair was curled and falling in waves around her face. She looked a lot more put together than Mack, in his most decent pair of jeans and a white dress shirt. Together, though, they probably made the picture of the most indulgent friends in the world. Which, really, they were. Jemma had volunteered to watch over all of them. Mack wasn't all that heavy of a drinker, and he was the designated driver.

“You're always thinking one step ahead, huh?”

“I try,” Jemma said, blandly, frowning slightly as Lance stumbled back over a kitchen chair. “Someone has to.”

“True.” Mack admitted. “Should we round them up and get them downstairs for the cabs?”

“It would probably be for the best,” she agreed, standing up and smoothing out her dress. “Would you like to do the honours?” She asked, gesturing at the group gathered before them.

Mack nodded, grinning, before bellowing, “Hey!” Immediately everyone stopped, staring over at the two of them, like a gathering of pre-schoolers caught up to no good by their teacher. It was one of the benefits of being the biggest guy in the room, with the loudest voice when he wanted to be. “Cabs're coming, you all better grab your shit and start heading down to the lobby. Miles, Skye, Idaho, you're riding with me in the truck.”

No one questioned it, which, Mack supposed, was the upside to dealing with people who were past the point of buzzed, with the promise of more party in the future. No one argued. Coats were grabbed, shoes, if they were discarded, were put back on. Skye and Lance would have a bit of cleaning to do the next morning – assuming Miles would be out of commission, as the birthday boy who would have drink after drink bought for him – but it was a small price to pay.

“Thank you,” Jemma mouthed, heading over to herd Fitz towards the door. Lance she left to Mack, but it wasn't much of an issue to nod towards the door and simply say, “club, man.” That got him moving, whatever argument he'd been having with Fitz forgotten, and the indignation at Fitz leaving their argument at Jemma's urging passed.

In no time they were exiting the apartment in a somewhat orderly fashion. Jemma hung back, waving Mack on. “I've got Skye's spare key. I'll lock up and head down to meet the cabs with the others. You get the birthday party there, okay?”

“All right, you got it.” Mack tipped his head to her and Fitz in a nod, and headed on down the hallway, following the sound of Skye loudly sharing the night's events. It sounded like a lot more drinking, some dancing, and potentially some 'hurling before more shots' was in order.

Jemma couldn't help but smile fondly, locking the door behind them. As they set off down the hallway towards the stairs, rather than the elevator, a door up ahead of them opened, and who stepped out, but...

“Large, black!” Fitz blurted, a grin plastered to his face, pointing at the two men in the doorway of the apartment. For a second, Jemma was mortified. It was difficult to place what he meant when the target of his words wasn't in his normal FBI attire, and for a horrifying lurch of a second, she thought he was describing the darker man hanging back just inside the apartment. A second later, though, she recognized the cheekbones.

Oh, FBI Hottie. Grant Ward.

Right, she had forgotten that he was Skye's neighbour. He looked just as confused as she'd felt, eyes narrowed, frowning ever so slightly at Fitz as the three of them walked past. His partner, however, Trip, unless Jemma had misheard him when he'd ordered before, was grinning wide, raising a hand in greeting to them.

“Hey, guys! Have a good night, huh?” He shoved Ward's shoulder. “Be friendly, say hi!”

“Uh. Hi,” Ward grunted. Not terribly friendly, but Fitz greeting him by shouting his coffee order hadn't exactly been the best conversation starter.

“I'm a little drunk,” Fitz shared.

Oh, this was not going well.

Jemma linked her arm through his, giving the agents her best smile. “Friend's birthday. Pre-game went a little deeper than we all thought.” She explained, unable to lie in the face of, well, the law. “But we're taking a cab to the club now, hope we haven't disturbed you at all. Have a lovely night.”

“You guys, too!” Trip said, his grin not faltering at all. “Happy birthday to your friend!”

Jemma waited until they were in the stairwell, heading down at a careful rate, to look at Fitz.

At least he looked properly mortified.

“I'm not drunk enough to have done that,” he muttered, not looking at her as they hurried down the stairs. They could hear the rest of their group downstairs. Didn't seem like they were far behind.

“No, but you are drunk enough to be friendly,” Jemma offered, kindly. “And you're not exactly the most... suave person I know, when you're put on the spot.”

“I called him Large Black,” Fitz iterated, firmly.

“True,” agreed Jemma. “But, hey, at least he didn't shut his door in your face when you did?”

“That's a very, very small consolation, Jemma.”

“Still a consolation.” She pointed out as they hit the bottom floor, and headed toward the lobby. “Come on, cheer up. The night is young, right? You won't even remember you did that, once Skye challenges you to shots.”

Fitz cracked a grin. “You raise a very good point.”

 

 

“It was working fine two days ago,” Grant said, reentering his apartment with two boxes of pizza. Maybe it was overkill to some, but for a trio of hungry FBI agents, it would just barely be enough. “I think that delivery boy was high.”

“Or maybe he was too scared to get closer to the buzzer, because of your barista's buddy's birthday posse,” Trip suggested, kicked back on Grant's couch, ankles crossed and propped up on the coffee table. Curled up in the oversized armchair at his side, Bobbi perked up.

“Yeah, I heard that commotion in the hallway. You distracted me by asking about my ex--”

“--Well, you said that was his car in the parking garage, next to mine!” Grant defended. “How was I supposed to know that your ex is the British guy across the hall?”

“Don't try to distract me again,” Bobbi warned, her tone level, her face serious, but the spark in her eyes betraying her amusement with the whole situation. “I want to hear all about your little barista, Grant. Did I detect a Scottish accent, just now?”

“Guess it means you're both suckers for accents,” Trip commented, shaking his head as though he was pitying them. “You poor bastards never stood a chance.”

“Can we stop calling him my barista?” Ward asked, dumping the pizza boxes on the coffee table, heading into the kitchen for paper towels. “You guys want a beer?”

“Please,” Bobbi called, over Trip's affirmative sound. “But, okay, come on. I need to hear this story, or else I'm going to keep dwelling on the fact that my ex was definitely across the hall, drunk, with your barista and a bunch of other people. And that, honestly, might make me laugh hard enough that I pass out, because he's trying way too hard to be cool.”

“Maybe he's looking for his rebound.” Antoine offered, opening up the top box of pizza while Ward came back into the room, paper towels in one hand, beers in the other. He took one and passed it to Bobbi before taking his own. “You'd be pretty hard to replace.”

“Maybe,” Bobbi admitted. “Is it wrong to say I am a _little_ worried about him? He had a borderline drinking problem, a few years back...”

“You know, for a heartless government tool,” Ward said, lifting pizza from the box. “You care too much. He's not your problem anymore.”

“Oh, trust me, I know he isn't my problem. He made it very clear he didn't want to be my problem, and I'm happy with that,” she took her own pizza, settling back again with it laid carefully in her palm over paper towel. “But you can't just turn off caring about someone, you know?”

“True,” Trip agreed, pointing in her direction with his bitten slice. “Keeps you human.”

“And not the hellbeast he apparently markets you as,” Grant quipped.

“Yeah,” Bobbi agreed, pausing while she chewed. “Okay, Grant, your turn. Story time. I want to hear all about this barista.”

Ward rolled his eyes, settling back on the couch while he ate. “Can't we put on some stand-up instead? I really don't think there's that much to tell.”

“We can watch stand up any time. It's rare that I get you to spill on anything other than the latest case.”

Bobbi had a point, and she knew it. When Grant looked her way, he was met with a smug smirk, triumph glinting behind those blue eyes. For a second, he had half a mind to tell her that, when she looked at someone like that, it wasn't hard to understand how her ex was classifying her as a hellbeast. The other half of his mind took over, though, and those words never left his mouth. Probably better, even best, that way. Otherwise he might have ended up in a headlock with his carpet slowly absorbing tomato sauce.

“Okay, fine.”

Those two words had an instant effect on the other two in the room. Trip straightened a bit, looking over with interest. That made sense. He'd never actually heard Grant talk about his supposed infatuation with the Scottish barista, aside from admitting that, sure, he was good-looking, and, yeah, Grant wouldn't say no to a date. Bobbi's reaction was to sit forward, the picture of rapt attention, taking a big bite of her pizza.

He had the floor.

“Okay, so, I started going to Weaver's a while ago. It's close to here and I hadn't heard anything bad about it. I figure, coffee's coffee, so, how bad could it be, right?” He took a bite of his pizza, finishing it off before picking up another slice and continuing. “Turns out, it was _great_ coffee. It's close to here, too, so I can get my morning or night coffee there, don't have to deal with any Starbucks or anything like that. It's surprisingly nice not to have to deal with crowds of people once in a while.”

“Preach,” Bobbi said, around the pizza in her mouth.

“Fitz is there... really often. He's an engineering student, I think--”

“--Grant, you didn't database him!”

“No!” Ward had the presence of mind to be offended by the suggestion that he had, while Bobbi looked visibly relieved at his denial. “He was reading a textbook one night when I went in. Caught him with it a few times since then. Do you want me to finish, or...?”

“Go on,” Bobbi waved her pizza crust at him.

“Anyway. He works a lot, for a student, but he probably needs the money, I guess. He's there almost every time I go in – and no, I have not memorized his schedule, so don't ask.”

“I wasn't going to,” she glanced over at Trip, a smirk playing around her lips. “But now I'm wondering if that was an admission of guilt.”

“Could be,” Trip agreed. “I'll continue surveillance to determine the validity of that.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence in my ability not to be a creepy stalker, guys.”

“Any time.”

“So, I guess, I don't know. I got interested in him without noticing. When his friends aren't around he actually talks a little bit. I'm interested, but it's not like I'm foaming at the mouth trying to get with him or something. And that's the long and short of it.”

“Get his number,” Bobbi said, firmly, not even looking up from the box she was rescuing another slice from.

“Excuse me?”

“Talk to him more, get his number. Grant, when is the last time you went on a date?” She held up a finger. “And that Lorelai chick does not count, she was a sociopath.”

“And, as it turns out, totally guilty of all charges,” Antoine added, taking a swig of his beer. “So, you know, two things not working out in her favour”

“I don't know,” Ward answered, turning over the cap of his beer in his fingers. “I guess it's been a year? Little bit longer? I don't exactly have time to date, guys.”

“I had time,” Bobbi pointed out.

“I have time,” Trip pointed out.

It was extremely infuriating when they used those facts against him. He could be an asshole and point out that Bobbi's relationship fell apart, and Trip's girlfriend was someone with an unknown profession, so, really, that was more concerning than Grant's lovelife. He knew they wouldn't hear it, though.

They only had his best interests at heart.

“If I get his number, will you leave me alone?”

“I'll make a serious consideration for it,” Bobbi conceded. “Trip?”

“I ain't leavin' you alone, man, I'm your partner. Where you go, I go.”

Grant leveled him with a flat stare, and Trip cracked a wide grin, nudging him with his elbow. “Yeah, yeah, I got you, man. Who knows, one thing could lead to another... Might be good for you to get laid.”

Ward leaned forward, snatching the remote off the coffee table. “Just for that, I'm going to find the most obnoxious Seinfeld stand-up.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles' birthday celebrations continue, and Bobbi has an unexpected run in with an old acquaintance.

There was something to be said for the sensation of heavy bass pumping through speakers, right into someone's chest, co-opting the beat of their heart for something that seemed far stronger and much more difficult to ignore. Not that Leo Fitz made a habit of ignoring the beat of his heart, but it wasn't something he regularly dwelled on. Not unless, of course, he was on his sixth drink, and the bass thrumming through the club was making him more aware than usual that he had a beat in his chest that had nothing to do with the sound system.

Consciously, he knew that he was finding the weirdest possible thing to discuss, but Skye wasn't calling him on it. She had her fingers laced through his, a smile on her face, and he had her rapt attention as they danced to that secondary beat in their chests.

“It's just fascinating, I think,” he said, letting her turn him in a circle. “We don't think about it until it's failing us. Like breathing!”

“Thank God we don't have to,” Skye teased, leaning in so he could hear her. “Or you wouldn't have anything to talk about, wouldya?”

Fitz scowled, but it was short-lived, crushed by Skye's fond laugh, and the way she pulled him in against her side, arm around his waist, hip bumping against his, one arm raised in the arm in some mimicry of club dancing. To be frank, he had yet to figure out if there was rhyme or reason to how people danced in a club, overall. Sure, there were those who took it upon themselves to put on a show, the 'everyone's watching' mentality present even through the fog of alcohol and whatever else they were filtering into their systems. But, mostly, it was people like Skye. Your body did what the music told it.

He just wished he looked half as confident or graceful doing it as she always did.

“Fitz,” she said, lips close to his ear so he wouldn't miss a word. “You know I love you, right?”

That got him to laugh. Skye was such a warm, loving soul, unless you crossed her. She made it very obvious to those that she was fond of, that she was fond of them. Fitz had no reason to doubt that he fell into that category, particularly when he let go of his waist and moved behind him, raising his arms and nudging her knees against his legs, not-so-gently prodding him into dancing with her more.

“Dance with me, then!” she chided, spinning back around in front of him, catching both his hands in hers, tugging them forward and pushing them back in opposite momentum, her hips swaying in time with each motion. “Quit focusing on your heart. C'mon!”

Fitz indulged her, letting go of the scientific, medical pathway he'd been chasing in his comfortable alcohol haze, copying her moves until she was nodding, grinning wide. “Yeaaaaah! That's more like it! Work those hips!”

She didn't let go of his hands, guiding him to dance with her, follow her lead, even when people around them, in scattered groups, were clapping to the beat. Skye was just that way. She electrified people around her, made them laugh, and didn't make them feel left alone as long as she could manage. Even when she was definitely more than buzzed, far beyond tipsy, she was still that light, fun person, and she was making him forget what he'd done in the hallway rather thoroughly.

The song ended, and the DJ came on the mic, the undertone of some song thumping under his words as he announced it was time for the club to announce the winner's of last weekend's draw. Skye took that as a sign that they had time to leave the dance floor.

“Come on, let's see if we can find our roommates,” she said, letting go of one of Fitz's hands, but keeping the other in hers, tugging him through the crowd, heading towards the bar that was furthest from the entrance to the club. “If I remember... Yep.” She stopped, shaking her head and grinning. “Birthday shots.”

Lance, Miles, and Idaho were sat at the bar, a row of five shots in front of each of them. From where they were approaching, Fitz couldn't tell exactly what was in them, but he supposed it didn't really matter. If it was those three, chances were that they would have requested something with as much kick as possible, something they hadn't had before – or, at least, for a long time. Jemma was sitting next to Miles, her hands on the bar as she tipped her head back and laughed at something Idaho was saying. Lance was between him and Miles, and when Jemma laughed, Lance's hand snaked out and shoved him, almost toppling him off his stool. Idaho recovered, mostly thanks to Mack's hand on his shoulder, pushing him back up.

“Gentlemen!” Lance announced, loudly. “Shots!”

“Wait, wait, hold on!” Skye called, inserting herself and Fitz firmly at Jemma's side, her free arm snaking around her friend's shoulders, pulling Jemma back to lean against her front. “Okay, we're here,” she said, grin bright, raising the hand she still had linked with Fitz's in the air. “You may begin.”

“Thanks for the permission, princess!” Miles hollered, a tad unnecessary, considering how close they were, but Skye just turned the hand she had curved against Jemma's shoulder, flipping him the bird. Miles laughed, then turned back to the bar and picked up the first in his line of shots.

Down the bar, Mack tapped his hand against the countertop, in time with his count. “3... 2... 1!”

All three of them tipped their heads back, downing their first shots, then the next, and the next, until they were all gone. Idaho slammed his final shot glass down with finality, raising his arms above his head, whooping loudly, a clear indication he'd finished first. Miles and Lance's shot glasses hit the bar at the same instant as he whooped, and they both groaned.

Mack laughed. “I'll be honest? Did not see that coming.”

Jemma shrugged, even with Skye's arm around her shoulders. “Miles and Lance started too early tonight. They're _slow._ ” She dragged the last word out as Lance leaned out from the bar to level a glare at her.

“I take it back,” he said, pointing at her. “You, lil miss, are no longer my honourary half sibling.”

“Honourary half sibling?” Fitz asked, going along as Skye moved her hand from his to tug him by his belt loop into some kind of uncoordinated, half-standing, half-sitting cuddle puddle with her and Jemma.

“Because we're both English,” Jemma explained, lifting her Smirnoff bottle, tipping the neck in Lance's direction. “Up until ten seconds ago, Lance decided that meant we were half siblings.”

“Flawless logic, really,” Mack commented, laughing when Lance turned his offended stare from Jemma to him. “What would that make Fitz, then?”

Lance turned around again, regarding Fitz critically. It would have been convincing, if it weren't for the slight haze in his eyes from all the drinking they'd already done tonight. “Weird cousin.” He concluded, continuing on, ignoring Fitz's 'hey!'. “Just like all Scots.”

“No, see, you've got that backwards,” Fitz said, taking the Smirnoff bottle from Jemma's hand as she offered it to him. It tasted like a bellini. He liked it. “You two are the weird cousins.”

“It's a matter of perspective,” Jemma said, taking her bottle back.

“Well, your perspective is faulty,” Fitz countered.

“I think you're probably all harbouring a little faulty perspective,” said someone approaching them. “Except Mack. I guess you're the DD?”

Izzy had shown up after all, in black tights, ankle boots with slight heels, and a dark green blouse that was definitely a size too big for her, over a black camisole. And she wasn't alone. The woman with her wore simple heels, high waisted black slacks, and a deep red top. The whole outfit complimented the thick framed glasses on her face and the red streaks in her hair.

“Tori!” Lance greeted, completely ignoring his boss in favour of opening his arms to the tall woman at her side. For hr part, Victoria Hand looked amused, raising her eyebrows, before allowing Lance the hug he was clearly after.

“You're a little drunk, Hunter.”

“Short joke!” Lance accused, dramatically reeling back from the hug.

“More like an accurate description,” Izzy countered, accepting Lance's hug after a loud laugh from the other.

“Okay, maybe both?” he allowed, sitting back down on his stool.

“Definitely both,” Mack cut in, and nodding at Izzy. “Yeah, I'm the DD. Someone has to be.” He extended his hand to Victoria. “Nice to see you again.”

“Likewise,” she agreed, shaking his hand. “Nice to see all of you, again. Miles, happy birthday.”

Miles raised his glass to the woman, with a smile and a nod. Fitz almost thought it funny, the way he sobered, just a little, at the presence of a real life FBI agent. “Thank ya, ma'am.”

“Just call me Tori,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “I don't think we've met, though...” She said, turning to Fitz and Jemma. “Skye, I remember. You look like you're having a good night.”

“I always do, when I'm with my crew,” Skye said, pulling Jemma and Fitz close, and then laughing at her own intentional joke. “Drinks could be part of it.”

Victoria smiled, tipping her head to the side in allowance to that fact. “If this is your crew, than these two must be...”

“Jemma Simmons,” she said, extending her hand, face lit up with admiration. “It's an honour to meet you, Agent Hand.”

“Careful, Jem, you've got a little drool, right...” Lance leaned in, and was batted away by Victoria's hand, his joke cut short.

“Honour's mine,” she said, shaking Jemma's hand. “I heard about you from Skye, and a bit from Lance. And if this is Jemma, then you must be Leo.”

“Fitz,” he said, half correction, half confirmation. “Nice to meet you!” She had a firm handshake. He supposed that was necessary, in a field grossly dominated by men. She'd have to make it clear in the first meeting that she wasn't weak. “Good to put a name to the face.”

“You've been talking me up,” Victoria said, turning to Izzy.

“Nothing of the sort. Your reputation precedes you.” Izzy smiled up at her partner. “Well, we'll be back in a bit. We're going to go grab a few drinks, ourselves. Turns out some friends of ours are over by the door. We're going to chat, catch up. We'll be back to check on you kids.”

“Not kids!” Idaho called after them, only to get waved off. Maturely, he stuck his tongue out at their backs, then turned back to the group. “More shots?”

“More shots!” Miles and Lance agreed, over Mack and Jemma's combined groans.

“More shots!” Skye agreed, extracting herself from Jemma and grabbing Fitz, tugging him down onto the stool next to her. “Come on, Fitz and I are in this time. You're going down, Potato State.”

 

 

 

“Thanks for having us over, Grant,” Bobbi said, turning in the doorway to say goodbye. Trip had left a bit ago; he apparently had a dentist appointment in the morning, and needed to get sleep. Such was the life of a FBI agent. You found doctors and dentists who were open on weekends, because the weekdays – and sometimes even those weekends – were write-offs. Bobbi had hung around longer, chatting, and getting caught up in it. Grant was, once you got past the shield, a great guy. Fun to talk to, easy to be around. He was a good friend, and she knew she could count on him. That was important. Some friends could be counted as friends, but you knew that when push came to shove, they wouldn't have your back. Grant was different in that he was stoutly loyal to those he considered friends. It was refreshing. In an agency where she was surrounded by men who could be, at best, misogynistic prats, people like Grant and Trip were needles in haystacks.

“Anytime,” Grant said, leaning on the doorjamb. “You know I never turn down a chance to have you and Antoine give me relationship advice and tell me I need to get laid.”

Bobbi laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, but you know we're not wrong.”

Even Grant had to allow that one, though he did it with a grudging, forced twist of his mouth as he nodded. “It might help a few things.”

Stepping in closer, Bobbi laid a hand on his arm, looking him in the eyes. Her voice was quiet, when she spoke. “I don't know if you've heard, but there's this _thing_ called 'masturbation'.” Grant rolled his eyes, but couldn't keep a grin from his face, stepping back from her. “I hear it's a really _hands-on_ solution.”

“I can't believe you're telling me to jerk off.”

“I can't believe I have to,” she countered, then patted his upper arm. “I'm just trying to help, you know.”

“You're a real saint,” Ward shot back. “Plans for the weekend?”

“Laundry,” Bobbi said, in a tone that suggested it was the most heavenly thing on the face of God's green earth. “Tidying my apartment. It's going to be quite the weekend.”

“I'm jealous,” he said. “Well, if you end up with any free time, Trip and I were gonna go to Morty's tomorrow night to watch some of the game, have a few drinks and burgers.”

Bobbi smiled. “More boys night? I'm always game.” She gestured for him to lean in, and drew him into a hug, squeezing his shoulder as she backeed away. “I'll text you.”

“Sounds good.” Grant said. “Have a good night, Bobbi.”

“You too,” she waved, and started down the hall. Grant waited until she was out of sight to close and lock his door. She knew, because she didn't hear it until the turned into the alcove where the elevators were. She pressed the button to call one, watching it light up under her finger.

It had been a good evening. In the FBI you either tolerated your fellow agents, or you didn't. It was extremely rare to befriend them so totally as she had. You knew everything about each other, on the surface, anyway. Going any deeper seemed pointless. And it was good to have friends outside the agency. Not that she didn't, but a lot of agents tried to keep work and life separate. It was understandable. What they dealt with wasn't light, and it was a matter of national security, in a lot of cases. When you went out with your buddies at night, the last thing you wanted was to feel like it was just an extension of the office.

It was never that way with Grant and Antoine. The three of them left the office at the office, left their guns in the holsters, and were able to get on like normal, non-FBI people. It was something they all needed, and, given that Grant was entirely prone to going out of his way to make nice with people other than those he was thrown into the lot with, it was probably really, really good for him.

She's never voice that mother hen-esque opinion out loud, though.

The elevator dinged, and Bobbi stood back, waiting for the occupants to spill out and empty it so she could head down to her car. They were a rowdy bunch, and for the moment, she had forgotten that Grant's across the hall neighbours had been going out drinking that night, and that her ex was one of them.

That forgetfulness didn't last long, when she heard the slurred, accented voice bringing up the rear of the little group. What she wouldn't have given for it to have been Grant's little crush, so that she could text him a comment. Something about him being a cutie, or likewise, to that effect. No, that accent was unmistakeably English, and one that she had heard many times before.

Lance Hunter.

Bobbi kept herself back at the wall, not drawing attention. It was late – or early, depending on how you looked at it – and if Lance was drunk that meant he was even less apt to keep his volume in check if he saw her. Bobbi could hope and pray all she liked that he wouldn't cause a scene and yell at her, - how was she, what was she doing here, was she stalking him, was he on some FBI most wanted list – but, she'd known Lance for far too long. Hoping for that was like hoping that the sun wouldn't rise the next day. It was a foregone conclusion.

The girl helping Lance keep his balance seemed to have the bulk of his attention. That was probably a good thing. The other guy with them was singing some warbling version of Happy Birthday, to himself. That explained what the occasion had been. Bobbi didn't know the situation, but she suspected the girl might be Lance's new girlfriend, and the guy, their roommate. That was good. He was moving on, maybe, if he was living with someone. That made Bobbi smile, relieved, in a way. She just hoped that Lance had grown up enough to be less of a handful for the other woman. Bobbi would always love him; that wasn't something you shut off. But, dealing with his behaviours and his paranoias, and his issues with her line of work? That had been something she hadn't loved. Hopefully that girl didn't have to deal with the same level of it as she had.

They were almost out of the alcove when Lance straightened up, and turned, eyes landing on her.

Damn it.

Bobbi had hoped that, even if he saw her, he was too drunk to register it. Unfortunately, he hadn't been, it had just taken a little longer than normal.

It was still far faster than she would have liked.

Bobbi moved forward, stepping into the elevator and hammering the buttons for the garage, and the door to close, careful to act as though she hadn't noticed that he was gaping at her. The sooner that door closed, the sooner she escaped the chance of Lance being Lance, and thereby waking up Grant's entire floor when he started demanding answers.

“Bob?”

The door shut, tight, and the elevator started descending. Not before she caught the hint of a shrill tone on the other side of the door.

“That was my hellbeast of an ex-wife!”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day on the job with Trip and Ward ends with bittersweet success, and Fitz finally gives up his number.

 “What's the situation we're looking at here?”

Felix Blake was an agent who had made going grey at a young age look artful. At least, that was something that Phil Coulson had told Ward, sometime after Blake had made a crack about Coulson's slowly receding hairline. Walking towards Ward and Trip at the scene, suit jacket open, blowing in the breeze, slightly, he looked like some kind of movie version of the FBI agent he really was. Another agent had once joked to Trip and Ward that he only hoped they looked that cool when they were in their fifties and greying. Trip had joked back that he _already_ looked that cool.

Still, considering that the two of them had shown up on the scene already in their situation gear, FBI-branded bulletproof vests strapped on, they hadn't, exactly, had the suit-blowing-in-the-breeze look.

“Twenty hostages. One male, four females, under the age of 16. Gunman is identified as Lester Smith.” Ward answered, succinct.

Blake nodded. “So, just your average Wednesday.”

“Something like that, sir,” Trip agreed, turning back to the survey the scene. They'd been called in just barely over thirty minutes ago, but the top brass had been hesitant to make a move. The main reason? The gunman was holding one of those females under the age of 16 up in front of the window every ten minutes, and asking the situation leader, Jasper Sitwell, over the line they'd established, if _this one_ would be the one to die.

He hadn't even made any demands, he was just deranged. Someone looking to cause a scene – and he certainly was – and terrify just shy of two dozen people, and their families – and he was certainly succeeding.

The issue was, though, that they couldn't take the chance that Smith was just looking for the attention.

He'd killed the restaurant's host upon entry.

There was already blood on this op, they didn't need more.

“What's Sitwell done so far?” Blake continued, staring across the lot. For the moment, the front window was empty. Smith had backed away with his latest hostage just before Blake had arrived on scene.

“He's been attempting to reason with him. We need to get him distracted, and get someone inside there who can take him out.” Ward answered.

“That'll be one of you two.”

Trip nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“All right, well, that explains why I was brought in,” Blake continued. “Jasper's patsy is legendary, but his ability to keep a guy talking...”

“Not so much.”

“Correct,” Blake said, pointing at Trip. “So, you two figure out how you're going in, and I'll go tell Jasper I'm here to take over for him. He can run the back end while you two infiltrate.”

It seemed almost wrong, to Grant, that something like this was par for the course for himself and Trip, but that was the truth of it. They had been doing the job for a long while, the two of them, and hostage situations just seemed like another part of it. It wasn't like the situation wasn't stressful, or like they didn't have high concern and serious regard for the hostages. Being part of the violent crimes unit, however, meant that they had gotten accustomed to things like this.

You should never get accustomed to saving people from crazed gunmen, but it had to be someone's job, so it might as well be theirs.

After Blake left, the two of them had gotten out of position and walked away from the restaurant's front, giving the illusion that men were leaving the stake out. The idea was to placate the gunman a little, while he spoke with the point agent on the situation. 'We're pulling our men back, see? We're presenting less of a danger to you', while, in reality, those men were sneaking around the back of the building in a wide circle.

Within twenty minutes Ward and Trip were situated on either side of the rear entrance to the restaurant, lock already discreetly broken, guns ready, riot gear – including their helmets – on. Once they opened that door, it would only be a few seconds before the gunman was incapacitated. This was the now or never moment.

Trip raised his fingers in the signal. On three.

He raised one finger.

_One_.

Two fingers.

_Two_.

Three fingers.

Ward's hand gripped the handle on the heavy back door and he jerked it open, letting Trip into the dark rear of the business before swinging through himself, gun up and ready. The back door had to have been oiled recently. It barely made a sound when they tugged it open, but then thump of its close echoed in the short back hallway they found themselves in. There was no telling if the gunmen had heard it; Blake was quiet on the comms, as was Sitwell. They could only hope that was what was happening, as they moved forward in the dark hall, into a passageway that broke off into bathrooms on one side, and a kitchen on the other. Past that was an opening into the dining area. Through it, they could see the vague silhouettes of people, not exactly moving, but swaying and shifting as they knelt and waited for whatever this man had in store for them. The sound of quiet sobs reached their ears, and Ward grimaced. Quiet sobs, and timid pleas.

“Please, don't do this. Maybe we can help you. What do you need?”

“Shut up, bitch, or I'll put a bullet through your daughter's skull. That what you want?”

“No! Please, please don't hurt her, please don't--”

The sharp sound of a gun barrel hitting skin and bone came from the dining area, and then a young girl's scream.

Ward met Trip's eyes and nodded, signaling that they would move forward. It sounded like Smith had his hands on another hostage, some other young girl to wave in the front window of the restaurant, mocking the FBI and police outside. He was clearly unopposed to hurting the other hostages, at the same time. There was no sound from the woman who had been pleading for her daughter to be left alone. All they could do was pray that she was only knocked unconscious, and not something far worse. There was already one casualty on this operation, and something told Ward that Smith wouldn't bat an eyelash to add another, if things kept escalating. It would be best if they took him out now.

Another hand signal, and they rushed forward as a pair, turning towards the sound of Smith's voice. He was on the phone again, holding a young girl up in front of the window. His fingers were wrapped in her long brown hair, jerking her back and forth in front of the glass as he argued with Blake on the line.

“She's cryin' real pretty, Agent Blake,” he was saying. “Is she the one I kill, or are you going to get me my daughter?”

Ah. So it seemed that the reason behind the terror Smith was inflicting had been sussed out. Ward made a mental note to ask about that later, once they were done here, and in the debrief, and sighted his gun on Smith's shoulder. The one above the arm that was jerking his hostage around like a toy.

He fired, and the bullet lodged itself firmly, deep into the tissue of Smith's shoulder. His arm spasmed, released, enough for the girl to get free and run. She skidded across the tiled for, sliding to a stop above a prone figure on the floor – her mother, presumably – while Smith turned, screaming, spittle spraying from his mouth as he looked for the target of his wrath.

The movement presented Trip the perfect angle to get off another shot, just below the shoulder on his gun arm, rendering it just as useless as the other. Smith had no choice but to drop the gun, though he seemed ready to fight the way his muscles refused to work, trying to level the gun on them. Ward took another shot, aware of how the restaurant's patrons were scattering, back against the walls, screaming and cowering from the gunfire. His second bullet buried itself in Smith's leg, probably nestling dangerously close to behind his kneecap. That shot dropped him to his knees, and Trip moved in.

It was an easy thing to push the man down to the floor, jerking his wrists behind his back to secure them in cuffs. The moment the locks clicked together, Ward squeezed the button on his comm.

“Blake, he's down and subdued. We're going to need medical for the shooter, as well as some of the hostages. Move in.”

The next hour passed in a blur. The on-site med teams moved in, one for Smith, the rest for the hostages. All of them were escorted out, Smith being supported by two uniformed agents, his wounds bandaged and handled for transport. The families and friends who had been trapped in the restaurant milled in the lot, between ambulances and other emergency vehicles, as well as their own. Police officers and FBI agents milled around with them, taking statements and contact information. Blake and Sitwell, for their part, were holding off the media, keeping them away from the people who had just been through a trauma with wide arms and statements on what had occurred.

“Sharks,” Trip said with a shake of his head. Even with his sunglasses covering his eyes, Ward knew that his partner was narrowing them in disgust. Neither of them had much love for the media when it came to their presence _after_ the fact of an op. They tended to get in the way, all vying for the chance to get the juiciest interview from the most traumatized and upset victim. It was sickening, from their standpoint.

“They smelled blood and came runnin'” Ward agreed, before there was a tap on his shoulder and he turned, Trip with him.

The girl with the long brown hair, the one that Smith had used as his last bargaining chip, stood behind them, looking pale and spooked. Ward couldn't blame her. She'd been through a hell of a thing, and all she'd been doing was enjoying lunch out with her mother. Her mother was sitting on the tailgate of one of the ambulances, an ice compress to her head, eyes closed while she spoke with the paramedic.

“I'm so sorry to bother you,” she started, but Trip cut her off with a hand.

“Don't apologise, miss,” he said. “We're not bothered.”

“Not at all,” Ward agreed.

The girl nodded, hesitating one more second before pressing on. “I wanted to thank you, for what you did. I was so... I was...” she pressed her hands together, and then covered her mouth, taking a shuddering breath. She couldn't have been more than 14, if she was even that old. Her eyes were already puffy and red-rimmed, and she was shaking as she tried to talk to them.

This was the hardest part of the job.

Having to see what the violent actions of others did to their victims. This girl would probably be on edge and anxious for days, if not weeks. This incident would impact the rest of her life, and it was all because one man was angry that he'd lost custody of his daughter due to his ex-wife's claims that he was unstable. Things like this could be stopped, but if they weren't caught before they'd begun, this was always the fallout. Someone would always suffer for the selfishness of others.

“Hey,” Ward said, gentle. He didn't dare reach out to touch her. They knew better than to try laying hands on a hostage survivor, even if it was in kindness and support. “Take a deep breath. It's all right.”

“We're just happy we were able to help,” Trip added with a nod. “You don't need to thank us for doing our jobs, miss.”

The girl nodded, reaching up to hastily wipe the tears from her eyes. Then she stepped forward and hugged them both at once, murmuring a quick, quiet 'thank you' to them before letting go and hurrying back to her mother.

Trip glanced at Grant, sighing after a second. “That right there? Should make me happy. Doesn't.”

Ward nodded, leading the way back to the situation area. “You're glad you could save her, but...”

“Hate knowing that she had to be saved at all.”

Sometimes, working for the FBI was a lot like being in a love-hate relationship.

 

 

“Just ask him for his number, man.”

Fitz frowned, looking over at Mack. The coffeeshop was empty, minus the two of them and Donnie. The other barista was posting up against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he nodded along with Mack's suggestion.

“What have you got to lose?”

“My dignity?” Fitz suggested. “A good-tipping customer. My confidence?”

Mack met eyes with Donnie across the shop and shook his head. “Do these sound like flimsy excuses to you, too, or is that just me?”

“Oi,” Fitz snapped his fingers. “I'm right here, thanks.”

“He has a point, though,” Donnie started, in a quiet, reasonable tone. For the last thirty minutes they had been on and off debating the merits of Fitz writing his name on Ward's cup in his permanent marker scrawl, ever since the other had appeared in a background of a shot with with his partner while the news was reporting on the hostage situation that had gone on earlier that day. Donnie had unceremoniously taken Mack's side, probably because Mack's argument didn't start off with 'it's a silly idea'. That wasn't exactly the best groundwork for a sound argument. “You don't actually have anything to lose. If this guy isn't in to you, he isn't in to you, but I doubt we'd lose him as a customer. Even if we did, it's not like we aren't getting more and more traffic every day.” Donnie would know. He and his boyfriend, Seth, seemed to have some weird fascination in noting the upturn of the traffic coming into Weaver's. It was nice to see Anne's business doing so well, and as she'd been something of a mentor to both Seth and Donnie, Fitz figured they probably liked having concrete facts to present to her when she was maybe having a down or off day. “Your dignity would heal.” Donnie added.

Fitz couldn't help but roll his eyes, not because Donnie was wrong, but because it was the only rebuttal he could formulate off the top of his head. Donnie was right. Mack was right. He had nothing to lose by giving Ward his number. Maybe, just possibly, even if Ward wasn't _into him_ , they could end up being friends. It could be really interesting to be friends with someone in the FBI. By proxy, it might mean he'd become friends with Trip, who seemed like a nice guy, and the really nice blonde, Bobbi, who had come in with Grant a few days ago. He'd immediately liked her. She was sweet, and so friendly. Admittedly, maybe Fitz had some fondness for her, because of the way she took playful jabs at Ward while they waited for her coffee to be brewed.

“Don't roll your eyes, it's rude,” Mack said with a wide grin. He took a sip of his coffee and then shrugged. “I don't know, man, I'm just telling you. The whole pining thing is getting real old, real fast. Make a move, or shut up.”

That was blunt, a bit unnecessarily harsh, Fitz felt, but that was probably only because he was resistant to the idea of being rejected. Mack was right, again. Donnie was right.

And those headlights were in the lot again.

Mack followed his line of sight and frowned, trying to figure out what he was looking at, before the light shut off, and Ward could clearly be seen inside the Charger. “Show time,” the big man announced, turning back to his phone after a quick look at Fitz. Donnie, for his part, stayed where he was, arms crossed, like some sort of sentry. Fitz knew he was waiting on him to act.

It took all of two seconds for him to give in, snatching a large cup from the tower and scrawling his number on it quickly. It was legible, barely, but he had to hurry. Ward would probably get suspicious if he took longer than necessary on pouring his black coffee. The cup never needed to be marked, especially not when he was alone. That action would set off alarm bells in the FBI agent's head, Fitz was positive.

Ward smiled when he came into the shop, glancing at Mack quickly, and nodding to Donnie. Fitz smiled, doing his best to appear nonchalant, totally at ease.

“Saw you on the news today,” he blurted out.

Over Ward's shoulder he saw Mack look up sharply. Fitz didn't dare make eye contact with him, but he could just picture the 'what the hell' look on the other's face.

That was _not_ playing it cool.

Ward looked confused by his statement, brows furrowing, a little frown turning down the corners of his mouth. “Sorry...? I don't remember...” Thee frown disappeared into a silent 'oh' of understanding. “Must have walked by the camera crew at some point.”

Fitz nodded. It really hadn't been that obvious. He'd only noticed, because, well, he'd sort of been looking. Donnie had noticed, too, and been the one to point him out. “Yeah, you sort of showed up and then moved on while they were talking to a guy with glasses.”

Ward nodded along. “Right, Sitwell. That's the guy's name.” He gave Fitz a small, suspicious smile. “You recognized me from that?”

“Well, you _are_ in here every day,” Fitz replied, smoother than he'd hoped to be, a little edge of teasing in his words. “I make a point of knowing my regulars.”

“Oh, I am _not_ in here every day!” Ward shot back with a grin.

Holy _shit,_ washe ever gorgeous when he did that.

“Every other day, then,” Fitz allowed, with a little grin of his own. “Like it or not, Agent Ward, you're a regular.”

Ward chuckled, pulling out his wallet. “I guess I could be a regular at worse places.”

“You could,” Fitz agreed. “Places that wouldn't even bother to know that you're going to want a large black coffee, to go.”

Pausing in pulling a bill from his wallet, Ward met Fitz's eyes and smiled. “You saying baristas at other places aren't smart enough to remember something that basic?”

“I _know_ they're not.” Fitz assured Ward, relishing in the sudden confidence, and the thrill that Ward's prolonged conversation was giving him.

“Damn,” Ward handed over a ten, shaking his head. “You convinced me. No one else measures up to the baristas here.”

“Nope,” Fitz agreed, ringing in the order and handing Ward back his change, before carrying the prepared cup over to fill it. The shuffle and clink of money going into the tip jar didn't go unnoticed as he did, and when he carried the cup back over, lid on, hand carefully covering the digits written on it, he wasn't surprised to see the rest of the ten had ended up in there. “Your coffee, agent.”

“Thank you,” Ward said, taking it from him, and turning to go. “You have a good night, Fitz. I'll see you next time.”

“Yeah,” Fitz agreed, the knot of tension in his belly tightening as Ward turned away, lifting his cup to take a sip. “G'night.”

It wasn't until Ward was in the parking lot, and set his cup down on top of his car to dig out his keys, that Fitz saw him realize there was something written on the cup. Mack was talking to him, and Donnie had said something about flirting, but Fitz couldn't focus on either of them. Ward reached up, turning the cup, tipping his head as he did to read the numbers scrawled on it.

And then he frowned, and the knot of tension in Fitz's belly seized.

He frowned, and looked back into the shop, but Fitz didn't give him the chance to make eye contact. Turning quick, he said something that came out as a rush of, “Need the dishes bathroom, I'm going to, just hold on,” and hurried into the kitchen, leaving Donnie and Mack in the main part of the shop, confused and cut off.

Fitz squeezed his eyes shut, willing the rise of embarrassment and disappointment to stop. He'd done what everyone had suggested, and given Grant Ward his number.

All he'd gotten for it was a confused – and probably disturbed – frown. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip and Raina go on a date, and Skye and Jemma have a Girls Night In

Being an FBI agent meant that you gave up a lot of your life to the service of your country. That was what Antoine Triplett signed up for when he entered Quantico, and he accepted it. Same as Bobbi had, same as Grant, same as Blake and Coulson, Sitwell and Hand. It was the sacrifice you made for a decent paycheque and the right and means to protect people all over the country.

Sadly, it also meant that date nights, sometimes, started late, when the sun was already nearly set.

Thankfully, Raina never seemed to mind.

That was probably because her job kept her just as busy as his kept him, even it if wasn't exactly the same line of work. The work that she did definitely helped people, just not quite in the same way his job did.

“Well,” Raina started, in the passenger seat, a sly smile spreading over her lips as she pushed open her door. Her legs, bare under the hem of her flower printed dress, moved elegantly as she shifted out of the vehicle, standing up to her full height. “This certainly is a... different start to our date night.”

Trip chuckled, following her lead and getting out of his car, shutting the door and locking it behind them. He walked around the front of the car, holding out his hand for Raina as she carefully stopped over the concrete parking block. “Well, I got us late,  _ late  _ reservations at your favourite restaurant, but I thought, maybe, to tide you over...”

Raina looked up at the sign over the entrance to the coffeeshop, and Trip could almost see the wheels spinning in her head. Working things out, sussing out why she recognised the name. That was one of the most attractive traits that she had. She had a quick mind, and a memory for important details that no one else may think to retain. That analytical mind, and thirst for knowledge and understanding of all things, particularly the parts of that impacted her world. The smirk that crossed her face when she put all the pieces together shouldn't have made his grin wider, but it did. 

“This is the coffeeshop where...” she pointed up at the sign with a loose gesture, turning to him, letting the thought trail off. “Isn't it?”

“It is.” Trip confirmed. “I thought it might be nice for you to see the place. Put a place in your mind when I'm sharing all those stories, and asking for advice about how to push Grant into--”

“--Putting his chips on the table.” Raina finished. “I'll admit,” she looped her arm through his, walking with him up to the door. “I've been wanting to try this supposedly godly coffee. I'm going to assume that you weren't overselling it all those times it came up when we were with Grant?”

“Actually, no,” Trip said, reaching out and opening the door for her. “The coffee _is_ really good, here.” 

The shop was busy, tonight, but that wasn't surprising. It was eight at night on a Friday. There were groups of teen and college aged girls taking up tables in the far corners of the shop, and a few couples spotted here and there at the tables, alongside small groups of two or three friends. That meant that the number of people staffing the bar was definitely upped. Darcy was there, as well as a girl with long, wavy hair that Trip remembered as Callie. The shop owner, Anne, was talking to a middle-aged couple as she made their drinks, and Darcy's boyfriend, Ian, was washing the blenders. Finally, manning the tills, next to Callie, was none other than Fitz.

They got in line, and Trip glanced at Raina to find that she was looking over the two men working behind the bar, Trying to work out which one of them was the one that Ward had feelings for. This was her territory, she was able to read people, and define individuals from others, given a certain criteria. The criteria, here, was to find someone that Grant would find physically attractive, while still seeming like he could hold the agent's attention and interest for more than a few minutes.

“The one on the till,” she said, quiet, with certainty in her tones.

“Very good,” Trip agreed, nodding.

“Wasn't that hard to figure out,” Raina waved her had, as though she was waving off the notion that she would have had any trouble deciphering that puzzle. “He's about the right height for what Grant likes, he seems to have an accent, and, I mean,” she smirked, “I haven't heard him do anything other than make small talk, but he seems to be managing doing that pretty well. Makes me think he'd do fairly well at filling in the blanks that Grant leaves. Being socially constipated and all.”

Trip tipped his head in a nod, frowning, even though he was amused at how easily she put everything together. “Well, you're not wrong.”

“I'm rarely wrong, darling.”

The wait in the line-up wasn't long, and it was maybe another minute before they were approaching the till. Fitz looked up, and looked between them, a furrow of confusion showing up between his eyebrows, before he smiled. “Evening, Agent Triplett.”

“Polite, too,” Raina said with a small smile. A small smile that bordered on being dangerous. That furrow of confusion came back again for a second, but Trip was quick to steer the attention away from what his girlfriend had said. Raina had a bad habit of confusing people with her knowing comments.

“You can just call me Trip, Fitz,” he said, with a grin. “How the night?”

“Oh, not bad,” Fitz answered, smiling again, though the line of confusion wasn't disappearing from his forehead. “Busy, you know. What can I get for you both?”

Trip ordered his standard regular, and then waved to Raina, waiting for her to decide from the menu. Her eyes, however, were trained on Fitz.

The look she was giving him was far from friendly, but maybe that was just because Trip knew her. She didn't want to harm Fitz, and she didn't dislike him; she was trying to figure him out, though. Trying to narrow down what it was about him that made him so irresistible to Grant. Not that the other had said that to either of them, but Trip himself might have inferred a thing or two when he was recounting his day to the woman.

He was beginning to regret bringing her here, but he regretted it even more when the next words left her mouth.

“So, this is the one that Grant likes.” Not a question. A flat statement. She gave Fitz a careful up and down, and then nodded slightly. “White chocolate mocha, with a shot of peppermint, if you wouldn't mind, Fitz.”

The second statement followed up the first with no bumps. No pauses or ruts between her damning statement and her coffee order. It was eerie how good she was at doing things like that. Clearly, it had caught Fitz off guard, too, because he was staring at Raina like she had two heads, frowning deeply. Trip couldn't find it in him to snap the guy out of it, either. There was no way to do it that wouldn't come across as rude, so he let it run its course.

Within a few more seconds, Fitz was blinking, and smiling in a bemused, wary kind of way, keying her order into the register. “Right, yeah. Absolutely, good choice. Uhm...” The ordered totaled out, the digital read-out on the display screen facing them reading $8.75.

Trip handed over two tens, and waved away the change.

“You have a good night, man,” he said by way of a departure, following Raina to wait for her drink, his own hot in his hand. Once they were out of earshot, he leaned down, just enough that he could be sure she couldn't say she didn't hear him. “That was _not_ nice.”

“What?” Raina asked, beaming up at him with an innocent smile. He knew it was wrong to find her radiant like this, after she just revealed his partner's feelings for the apparently lovestruck – though, could it really _be_ love? Probably more like luststruck, or 'crushing' – barista, but he did. He had it bad. “I was just helping to move things along.”

“In your fashion,” he muttered, as her drink was pushed towards them across the bar by Ian.

Raina picked it up, her slim fingers wrapping around the cup as she raised it to take an experimental sip. “In my fashion,” she agreed. “Absolutely correct.”

 

 

 

“Who's that?”

Jemma looked up from the text message that had come through at Skye, rolling her eyes and waving the phone in her hand. “Fitz.” She explained. Skye gave her a searching look, clearly waiting for a wider explanation than the other's name. “So, remember what I told you happened earlier this week?”

Skye nodded, saying, “Ah. Yep.”

Earlier in the week, Fitz had come home in a funk. It happened, now and then. Customer service work wasn't exactly the most rewarding of jobs, and being a barista definitely had it's ups and downs. People tended to get persnickety when their coffee was at stake. She hadn't been distressed about his down mood when he'd first arrived for that reason. Her immediate reaction was to get up and toss a bag of popcorn in the microwave, before turning to him with a sympathetic smile. “What to sit around and use colourful language about whoever or whatever ruined your night?”

Her first indication that it wasn't your run of the mill dick customer issue was that Fitz looked at her and he looked like someone had just given him a monkey and then killed it in front of him. Maybe, just maybe, that was much too much of a violent example, far too traumatizing, but the sad puppy look he was giving her? Warranted it.

So, of course, she'd asked what had happened, and it had all come tumbling out in a rush. Once she knew what had happened, Jemma couldn't blame him for looking like someone kicked his monkey, multiple times.

He'd finally gotten up the courage to give Agent Ward his number, and what had come of it? The man had looked _confused_ and probably _disinterested_ and maybe even _creeped out_. Jemma had tried to reassure him multiple times that he probably misread the expression, given how keyed up he was, but he insisted that Mack would back him up.

Of course, she hadn't spoken to Mack about it, but she had no doubt that he would collaborate what Fitz was saying, if Fitz said that he would.

Still, it seemed so hard to reconcile Ward being disinterested with the way things seemed to be going up for their talking potential. Darcy had been giving her very (almost disturbingly) detailed reports on the conversations that Fitz and Ward were having when the agent came into the shop. That was alongside the way Fitz practically gushed – for him – when he talked about their conversations. Everything had seemed on the up, and Darcy claimed her 'gaydar' had never been wrong before.

Maybe Fitz just wasn't his type?

That was what Jemma had chalked everything up to, until right this minute when Fitz's text had come through.

All caps, with multiple punctuation.

 

> _TRIP'S GIRLFRIEND CAME IN WITH HIM TONIGHT AND SAID WARD FANCIES ME??????_

 

Well.

It certainly hadn't been exactly what she had been expecting to be the next update on the Wooing Ward front. In fact, she'd thought Fitz had been trying to move on from the Wooing Ward front. Guessing by the look on Skye's face, it hadn't been what she had expected to come next, either.

“Hold on, Trip has a girlfriend?”

Jemma pulled her phone back, looking incredulously up at her. “That's what you're choosing to be affected by in all this?” she asked. Skye laughed, dropping down on the couch next to her, a big bowl of chips in her hands. She set it between them and shoved one in her mouth, talking around it.

“I wouldn't mind a wild ride on that black stallion,” she commented, lightly. “Come on, don't lie, you wouldn't mind either.”

Jemma ignored the roll in her stomach, the slightly jealous one that reared its ugly head here and there. “Well...” she started. “No.” It wasn't entirely a lie. Antoine Triplett was a gorgeous specimen of a man, and he was always so nice and charming. Any woman who had the good fortune of being his girlfriend probably had it very good. Not that she could know that, since she barely knew him, but, still, the point remained.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Skye said, dragging the word out. “But, on a more serious note, _holy shit_ , Agent Ward might have the hots for our favourite little barista?” She shoved another chip in her mouth, before continuing. “I mean, I thought it was a little weird that he seemed disinterested Tuesday night. I've seen him checking out Fitz's ass, boy, he is not subtle.”

Jemma had witnessed the forementioned ass-checking, too, even if she'd never mentioned it to Fitz. She had thought it best not to get him even more keyed up when Ward was around. “You know, Fitz might have been misreading the whole situation. I don't know what I can say about him saying Mack would back him up, but he might have misread. I mean, he was probably confused, sure. From what Fitz told me, he just wrote his number on the cup and gave _zero_ indication that he was handing over anything important.”

Skye nodded as Jemma reached over for chips of her own. “I know I'd be confused if I looked at my cup expecting to see some shorthand for caramel latte, and instead I saw my barista's number.”

“So, then, it's entirely probable that Fitz misread the situation and jumped to conclusions.” Jemma gave Skye a meaningful look. One that said that it wasn't surprising that Fitz had jumped to a conclusion, if that was what he had done. She typed out a quick reply to him, to that effect.

 

> _I suppose that means there's more to Tuesday night than you originally thought,                            hm? I'm so excited for you, Fitz! All is not lost!_

 

“Our little boy may get some yet!” Skye announced, then raised the DVD player remote, waving it in a circle. “Now, are we ready to watch some pointless B-movies?”

“Absolutely,” Jemma answered.

Their girls night plan for this Friday was a few terrible movies – Sharktopus, and the like – vodka coolers and snacks. Once Fitz got home, he might join them, or he might head to his room to play videogames or work on one of his school projects. Considering it was a Friday night, which meant that he wouldn't get home until closer to one in the morning, chances were more towards the latter.

The first few hours of bad movies went by in a blur of laughter, the two of them getting more and more giddy on vodka as small name actors pranced around on the screen, running from mutated shark monsters and out of the blue natural disasters. By the time midnight rolled around, they were draped over each other, Skye cradling Jemma against her chest.

“That was stupid,” she muttered, but Jemma could hear the smile in her voice.

“They've all been rather stupid, love,” Jemma replied, tipping her head back against Skye's shoulder to look up at her. “Just... you know, pointing that out.”

Skye grinned. “You called me 'love'.”

“So?” Jemma shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, cuddled up against Skye. “I call you 'love' all the time.”

“Hm. Not all the time.” Skye shook her head, reaching for her bottle of vodka and taking a big swig of it. Her eyes squeezed tight for a second as it burned its way down her throat and then she smiled again, opening her eyes and looking at Jemma. “I like it when you do. It sounds all... All _posh._ ”

Jemma giggled. “Posh?”

“Posh,” Skye repeated. “Of course, everything you say sounds posh. Your voice is so pretty.”

Jemma, even through the comfortable haze of alcohol, was aware that there was a flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with their alcohol consumption.”You flatter me.”

Skye shrugged, a movement that made Jemma shift against her. “Call it whatever you want, but it's truu-uuue.” The way she said the last word was off-key, sing-song. Adorable.

Jemma was in far too deep.

She was in far too deep, and she couldn't be bothered to care. She was enjoying this too much. Enjoying being this close with Skye, this comfortable. Part of her knew that it was wrong. Skye couldn't have the same feelings as she did. They were best friends, close and comfortable with each other, but there would never be a deeper meaning to their relationship than that.

Fitz wasn't the only one who had trouble moving on from failed crushes.

Skye had gone silent, contemplative. Jemma could tell by the way she was chewing her lower lip with a faraway look in her eyes.

That, or she was reveling in the warm haze the vodka gave her.

“What're you thinking about?” Jemma asked, quiet, breaking the silence between them. Skye snapped out of it, coming back from wherever she had been and looking at Jemma like she was just seeing her again.

And then she kissed her.

It wasn't a big kiss.

It wasn't even a real kiss.

Skye pressed her lips to Jemma's hair, just above her ear. Her touch was sweet, and her breath was warm, and Jemma froze up in her arms, hardly daring to believe that this was happening.

Then Skye kissed her again, those lips at her temple, gentle.

And again, on her forehead, just above her eyebrow.

“Skye...” Jemma breathed, quiet. Her skin felt on fire everywhere Skye kissed her, her heart was hammering in her chest. These kisses were sweet, reverent, _loving_. Skye had never done anything like this before. It was intoxicating.

She drew back, moving to place another kiss in the center of Jemma's forehead...

And the apartment door swung open.

The two of them jolted apart, waking up from the warm, close bubble they'd been sinking deeper and deeper into, looking towards the door.

Fitz was there, busying himself in kicking off his shoes and taking off his jacket, not even looking their way. If what they had been doing had been meant to be hidden, they certainly wouldn't have been discovered.

Jemma shifted so that their cuddle looked a bit more friendly, and smiled when Fitz turned around.

“Evening,” he greeted. His smile was genuine, but Jemma could see the line of confusion and near-bursting need to work things out, verbally.

“Hello, Fitz,” she replied. “How was work?”

“Nevermind 'how was work',” Skye said, waving Jemma's words off, before she was shifting, pulling away from Jemma, moving until they had left ample space on the other side of the couch for Jemma's roommate. “Come on, join in on girls' night. Dish.”

Jemma took in Skye's grin as Fitz came to join them on the couch, and recounted the evening's events. She didn't look like she'd just been reverently, chastely kissing Jemma's forehead, she didn't look like someone who had been moving on to, potentially, more than those chaste kisses.

Whatever had possessed Skye to act that way had made its escape when Fitz had opened the door.

Jemma turned back and listened to her best friend describe Antoine Triplett's 'otherworldly' girlfriend, and tried not to dwell on her missed chances.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ward makes a phone call, and Skye makes a bad decision.

“Man, do you need me to dial the number for you? Is your phone broken? Is that the issue? I can lend you mine.” Trip frowned, standing over Ward's desk, hands on his hips like some disapproving father watching his kid struggle to work his way around a basic addition problem. Only, in this case, it was Grant struggling to do anything with the number that was glaring at him from his phone screen.

It had been a week since he'd turned his cup and seen the digits scrawled there. Maybe he should have been expecting it – Trip had said he was supposed to have been, and Bobbi had grinned about a mile wide, clapped him on the shoulder, and said something about how his cheekbones and chiseled jaw had worked out for him very nicely. They were, really, the only ones he had confided in, but somehow it had gotten around the department that someone out in the wide City of Angels found him intriguing, to say the least. They'd all worked together for years, so the joshing and joking was to be expected, but Grant could have done without, well...

“Keep your voice down,” he muttered, sitting forward in his seat and glancing around. The office was pretty empty. Hand was in her office with May, and Hill was at her desk. Other than that, it was pretty quiet. No sign of John Garrett.

John Garrett, the man who had taken Grant under his wing when he'd joined the FBI, was something like a father figure to him. Maybe the better term was uncle figure, at least now. In the years since Ward had begun working with Trip, the distance between himself and Garrett had grown, even though Trip had been another favourite of his. Given that they all still worked in the same department, however, and worked closely, those bonds stayed present. Given the latest revelation in Grant's lovelife, John had taken it upon himself to act like some kind of love guru to his former pupil. 

Trip chuckled, dropping into the seat at his own desk, across from Grant's. “He went to grab coffee with Sitwell and Rumlow.”

“Good,” Ward muttered, locking his phone again and setting it back down on his desk. “If I have to sit through one more discussion of how I'm supposed to woo someone...”

“I think the best part about it is that he keeps bringing up Lorelei.”

Melinda May made her approach known with those words, from a scarce six feet away from their shared work area. Her discussion with Hand must have been over.

Melinda May was something of a legend in the Los Angeles office. She'd been in the line of work for a long time, and the stories that were told about her were various and fantastic, and she refused to confirm or deny any of them. She wasn't, she said, in this line of work for the fame and recognition that it would get her. Ward could respect that. They were in the business of helping people, from where he stood. Not in the business of plaques and statuettes. Leave that to the hoards of aspiring actors and actresses across the road at Starbucks.

“He counts it as a big screw up,” Ward said, in answer to her unasked question. Garrett had torn a strip off of him in the wake of the Lorelei incident. The redhead had been a target of one of their investigations, along with four other women. Ward had let himself be lured in by her and everything nearly went sideways. He owed May for making sure it didn't. She didn't seem to hold his shortcoming against him, which was refreshing. It wasn't the mark of a good agent to be seduced by your marks. “Likes to remind me of it.”

“No one actually has the right to do that, except Hand.” May said, pulling over her desk chair to join them. It was rare that the woman was in a chatty mood, and Ward and Antoine exchange looks. She was blessing them with her good mood. They should feel honoured. “And Hill. Myself. I suppose Garrett is among the brass in the department, but just barely. He's barely gotten his toes wet.”

She pointed at Ward's phone, signaling a change in the conversation, turning it away from Garrett and the Lorelei incident. “You still haven't called them, have you?”

Trip spoke up for him. “No, he hasn't. It's sad, Mel. Watching him  _ pine _ .”

“I'm not pining.”

“Actually?” May raised her eyebrows, gaze on the floor, a clear answer on her thoughts. “You're a FBI agent in the violent crimes division. I would think you could muster the bravery to call up a barista.”

Ward stiffened at those words, glancing at Trip before May. She rolled her eyes.

“You think Bobbi and I don't talk?”

“Morse gave me up?” Ward asked, incredulous. “Last time I trust her with anything...”

“Don't be a child,” May said, firm, leaving no room for argument in her tones. “She didn't give you up, so much as I guessed. You have your little habits, Ward. You go to that coffeeshop by your place more often than you go to any Starbucks, judging by the cups you bring in here. Bobbi told me that the person who gave you their number wasn't in the agency. Sure, it could be one of your neighbours, but you're not the type to socialize with your neighbours. From what I tell, you don't go to clubs often enough to have someone you met there become a habit, so it has to be someone at the coffeeshop.”

“Damn,” Trip breathed, cracking a grin. “She's damn good.” Ward gave him a level look. “Hey, man, you can't deny skill.”

It was true, you couldn't, and Ward was slightly amazed at how easily May seemed to have pulled the puzzle pieces out of thin air and slotted them together to figure out where his affections were straying.

“Well determined,” he allowed, grudgingly.

“So, if she – or he – is a barista, how intimidating are they, really?” May asked, a hint of a smile sparkling in her eyes and dancing around the corners of her mouth. “Afraid they'll poison your coffee?”

“That's not funny, he could,” Ward said, then silently damned himself for his choice in words. May, for her part, didn't look at all surprised, but she did seem to catch on to Ward being aware of his slip-up.

“You've always seemed the someone attracted to a person, not their genitals,” she said, lightly. The office felt too tight, too personal, suddenly, and Ward found himself glancing at Trip. His partner didn't seem to think that the case, at all. He looked at ease, pensive, thoughtful over what May was saying, and when he met Grant's eyes, he nodded.

Some days, it struck Grant just how  _ unique _ his partner was, as a man. Not many FBI agents would sit in the office and thoughtfully agree to a senior agent's description of their partner's sexuality.

Then again, this wasn't exactly a conversation that the agency broadcasted as 'regular' when they were recruiting.

“Anyway,” May continued. “If you die of poisoning, we know the first place to look, don't we?” She stood up, pushing her chair back towards her desk. “Just my two cents, but if I were you, I'd call him. You don't want to end up married to this life, with no one outside of it to remind you that violent crimes aren't the only thing out there.”

Ward nodded, silent, as she left, before turning back to his computer and pulling up the file he'd been working on before his phone and his running thoughts had distracted him. That lasted maybe ten seconds before Trip interrupted him.

“She's right, and you know it.”

“Trip, man, please,” Ward spun in his desk chair, giving his partner an exasperated look. “I get it, she's right. You're right. Bobbi's right. I don't know what Tori's opinion on this is, but she's probably right, too.”

Trip eyebrows raised. Silent question. ' _ And?' _

“And...” Ward trailed off, throwing his hands in the air. He didn't have any other argument other than that he didn't want to take the chance that things might not work out, or, worse, that he'd get attached. That was the easy way out of it. “Fine. Stay here.” He grabbed his phone from the desk, again, and got up, stalking towards the stairwell exit of the office. It was guaranteed to be empty, and the only place he could hope to make the call, without being interrupted.

He could have just as easily texted, but something told him that a phone call was better. He'd spent the last seven days just about  _ dashing  _ in and out of Weaver's. Sparing quick hellos and 'have a good one's to Fitz and the rest of the staff. He hadn't even been able to make eye contact with the barista after the first day; he knew the confused, ashamed, hurt look that would linger in those blue eyes if he did.

Fitz deserved a phone call.

Besides, Ward didn't know what kind of texter he was, and what if he was the type that used u's and r's, and Ward's use of full words felt overly formal and daunting in comparison?

No, a phone call it was.

He had already gone to the trouble of programming Fitz into his phone, and, after a few second's hesitation, he tapped the 'call' button on the screen, lifting the phone to his ear. He realized around the fourth ring that it was only just barely past lunch, on a Thursday, and Fitz was an engineering student – probably – so he was probably in class right now. It could also just be that Fitz wasn't the type to answer strange phone calls, but, in either case, it seemed likely the call was going to ring through to voicemail. That was something of a relief. Ward wouldn't have to worry about making too much small talk on the phone. He could just leave a message and then the ball would be back in Fitz's court. They could go wherever  _ Fitz  _ wanted, from there.

The phone rang a total of six times, before there was a dull click, and the other's Scottish brogue came over on the pre-recorded greeting.

“ _Hello, you've reached Leo Fitz. I'm either in class, at work or unable to answer my phone right now, so it'd be best for you to leave a message. I'll return your call as soon as possible. Thank you._ ”

The beep sounded, and Ward forgot how to use his words. At least, that was what it felt like when the first sound out of his mouth was some bastardized cross between 'uh' and 'yeah'. The stupidity of it snapped him out of it, and he cleared his throat. “Hi. It's Grant Ward. Agent Ward. You gave me your number the other night, and I'm really sorry it's taken me this long to get back to you. If you wanted, you can give me a call back at this number, anytime. I usually have it on me and as long as I'm not on a scene I can answer. I have voicemail.” He was rambling. “Well, see you around! Bye!”

Grant lowered the phone and tapped the 'end call' button, staring at the screen for a second, eyes barely seeing his lock screen image – a photo of himself and his younger brother Thomas at a Bruins and Kings game last year – as he replayed his sign-off in his head.

“' _See you around_ '?” he repeated in a low, annoyed mutter, yanking open the door to head back into the office. “Could I sound more like a sitcom?”

The office was more full, now. Garrett and Rumlow were coming in the doors, both raising their hands to hi in greeting. He returned the gesture, and turned into the space he and Trip shared to find Bobbi in his chair.

They stopped their conversation when he arrived and both gave him expectant looks, clearly having been discussing what he'd gone off to do. Ward raised his phone, waving it like a white flag.

“I left a voicemail. If he's still interested, I assume he'll call back.”

Bobbi grinned, looking over at Trip.

“Let the games begin.”

 

 

 

There never really needed to be a definitive occasion for Jemma and Fitz to have one of their famed 'FitzSimmons' Night In' nights. Sometimes it was an overload of finals, sometimes it was shared sickness, sometimes it was some new Doctor Who special being released. Whatever it was, there didn't always need to be a reason. Especially with the two of them living together, more often than not, things could end up as impromptu nights in, though they never really saw it that way. Skye had started the joke, Darcy had picked it up, and it had traveled through their friend group and around the coffeeshop.

Tonight, there was no occasion. Fitz didn't have to work, and had no assignments of which to speak – a feat and a rarity, given the field he had chosen to study. Jemma, likewise, wasn't bogged down with schoolwork. She'd managed to catch up on her readings during her afternoon off. They could have easily gone out, seen a movie, gotten dinner, gotten together with their friends, but, with the weird psychic understanding they had between them, they had wordlessly decided that the best use of their evening was ordering in Chinese, and sprawling out on their couch, surfing through Netflix, finding the most ridiculous American B-movies the streaming service had to offer.

They'd yet to find something that measured up to the true gem that was Sharknado, but there was a lot to choose from.

“What about Avalanche Sharks?” Fitz asked from his position on the couch, carton of Chinese carefully balanced in one hand, television remote in the other. “We haven't seen that one yet, have we?”

Jemma carried their drinks into the room, setting his on the table in front of them while looking critically at the screen, and the image chosen to promote the film. “I don't believe so, no... I'd remember something with a blonde woman with katanas facing down a gigantic great white.”

Fitz smirked, directing the movie to play, and shifting until he was comfortable. “I thought you were more into brunettes.”

Jemma frowned at him, but didn't elbow him, probably because she didn't want to risk his food flying everywhere if she did. “There's nothing wrong with a blonde.”

It was difficult for Fitz to sass her back, with a full mouth of food, but he did look over at her, his eyes clearly saying ' _but you prefer brunettes'_ as he chewed. That wasn't strictly true. As of late, though, Fitz seemed to be channeling a lot more energy than ever before into helping her out with her little crush on Skye.

The little crush that had exploded into something not so little anymore after their interrupted session of couch snuggles. Jemma had known, within the first second, that what they were doing right then and there would change their relationship forever. Sure, girl friends were able to cuddle and snuggle with each other, to be affectionate in those ways. That was the beauty of having girl friends, and not being hung up on that type of thing. But the kisses that Skye had been laying on Jemma hadn't exactly screamed ' _you're my best friend!_ ' They had felt like they were screaming more, asking for more, dare she hope, _hoping_ for more.

And then Fitz had barged in and interrupted whatever trail those kisses had been blazing.

He felt guilty for it, which was nice, but not exactly what Jemma had been angling for. She didn't take satisfaction in her best friend being hung up over his emotional distress causing him to burst in unannounced.

She did take a little satisfaction into how he seemed ready and willing to help her sort things, with more gusto than previously exhibited.

“Regardless,” Jemma cut across, redirecting his attention back to the screen as the movie opened. “We haven't seen this one yet, so I'm rather ready for whatever these Avalanche Sharks have in store.”

They lapsed into fair silence for a while, eating and commenting here and there on the absurdity of the movie. Fitz's phone went off at one point, from its spot next to the television where it was charging, having died during his last class, and that seemed to remind him that he had motives to making his best friend and roommate achieve her girlfriend related goals.

“Have you spoken to her about it?”

Jemma frowned at the screen and considered, for a moment, not dignifying him with an answer. Of course, Jemma had _wanted_ to discuss the whole thing with Skye, almost immediately the next time they were together. The issue was that Skye didn't seem keen to discuss it. In fact, Skye was doing her best to act like nothing had happened – or some close to happening – between them.

Jemma wondered if it was deliberate, and if she knew how much it hurt her to listen to the other's woes over her man troubles.

Apparently, on the night of Miles' birthday party, when she, Miles and Lance had been arriving back at their apartment, they'd run into none other than Lance's ex, Bobbi Morse, presumably on her way home. Who she had been visiting and why had been all too obvious to Lance, once they'd dragged him back to the apartment. She must have been visiting their neighbour, FBI Agent Hottie, Grant Ward, because she, too, worked for the FBI. Were they sleeping together? Lance wasn't sure, but Skye had said that the evening's rages, before he'd passed out, had sounded like some kind of conspiracy theory. Something about Bobbi sleeping with Ward, who was taller, broader, more muscled, and more handsome, than Lance himself, to make him jealous. Bobbi must have been trying to get a rise out of him.

Skye thought the whole thing was hilarious, but she'd also mentioned that seeing Lance all worked up over his ex had reminded her of the person he'd been when she'd fallen into bed with him in the first place.

It was her choice of words that had made Jemma's stomach tighten in distress.

Logically, she knew that she had no claim, or right, to who Skye saw or slept with. It didn't mean that it didn't hurt to hear Skye was considering trying to work it out with Lance again. Miles didn't, apparently, care either way. Skye had laughed while telling Jemma that he'd just asked that they 'keep it the fuck down' if they started sleeping together again. Supposedly, this was funny because _Lance_ was the vocal one.

It was exhausting to laugh and nod along.

Jemma needed to start, really start, trying to get over Skye. Their friendship was too important to lose over a little schoolgirl crush.

It didn't help that, as she was realizing this, Fitz was redoubling his efforts to help her out in her love life.

Maybe that was because his seemed to be going nowhere. Jemma wouldn't push that, though. A week without a word from Ward, or acknowledgment of the phone number he'd given, wasn't exactly the most encouraging of events, and she knew that Fitz knew that. She'd let him have his enthusiasm to help for a few more days, before she told him it was hopeless, and refocused on her studies.

“We haven't really been in the best places to bring it up, any time we've been together, since.” She answered him, taking the empty carton from his hands and setting it with hers on the table in front of the couch. “So, no, we haven't really talked about it, Fitz.”

He nodded, readjusting his position on the couch to make it easier for her to use him as a leaning post. “Maybe you should try to make it a possibility?”

On screen, the lead actress screamed, horribly fake, and Jemma smirked. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Fitz phone went off again, and they both frowned, looking at it.

“Did you get a call before it died?” she asked, sitting up a bit so he could get up and take it off the charger. “You said it was dead when you got out of class... Fitz?”

Her roommate was standing in the middle of the living room, staring at his phone, his face a mix of disbelief and hope. That could only mean one thing.

“He called you back,” Jemma breathed. The giddiness seized her stomach tight in a vice, and she broke into a huge grin, bouncing to her feet. Joining him, she looked at his phone screen, and, sure enough, at the top of his Missed Calls list was listed a “G. Ward”. There was also a notification from a voicemail from his call. “He called you back.” Jemma repeated with more certainty. “Oh, come on, play the voicemail.”

Fitz snapped out of it then, stepping away from her slightly and looking up from his phone, meeting her eyes. The look in his was an even mix between excitement and trepidation. “Should I?”

“Should-- What?” she reached out, taking the phone from his hand, and tapped the voicemail button with one finger. “What kind of question is that?”

“A good one...” he muttered weakly, watching as she switched his phone into speaker mode, and keyed in his voicemail password. Jemma could just about feel him holding his breath, with the stillness that had settled in the room. This was exactly what she needed to take her mind off of dwelling on her floundering crush; Fitz's reciprocating. In that second, she understood what Fitz had felt for the last week, and moved closer to him, holding the phone between them as the automated voice droned that he had new new voicemail.

There was a pause, a hiss of air, and then that voice, the one that Jemma associated with leather and guns and the vague feeling of safety and anticipation, came through Fitz's speaker.

At least, she thought it was him. The first sound that came out of the speaker was something that sounded like “Uhhyyehhhh?”

Jemma shot Fitz a look, catching the flush already creeping up his neck. Just the fact that Ward had called him back must have goaded that into starting. She could just imagine how red his neck and ears would be once this was over.

“ _Hi. It's Grant Ward. Agent Ward._ ” Jemma smiled. He sounded a bit nervous, himself. That might be a good thing. “ _You gave me your number the other night, and I'm really sorry it's taken me this long to get back to you._ ”

Jemma's mouth formed an ' _o'_ and she grinned at Fitz, putting a hand on his arm. At least the guy was owning up to having taken a while to even acknowledge that getting Fitz's number hadn't totally disturbed him.

“ _If you wanted, you can give me a call back at this number, anytime. I usually have it on me and as long as I'm not on a scene I can answer. I have voicemail._ ” He was just as suave as Fitz, it seemed. It was almost like he was rambling, trying to fill dead airspace, angling to reach the final ' _beep_ ' that meant he'd spoken too much.

It was almost _cute._

“ _Well, see you around! Bye!_ ”

The voicemail clicked away, and the automated voice came back, informing them that it was the end of Fitz's messages, and if he'd like to save the message, he should hit--

Fitz reached out and tapped the number 7, as the voice instructed. A flat “ _Message saved._ ” confirmed what he'd done, and his fingers gingerly took the phone back from Jemma. The red flush had crept all the way up his neck and paused, hovering, over the shell of his ears, like he was barely controlling its spread. He definitely hadn't managed to control the spread of the grin across his face.

“Call him back!” Jemma urged. “He said you could!”

“Right now?” Fitz asked, gesturing at the television. On screen, someone was being eaten. It probably wouldn't make for the best background noise. Jemma turned, searching for the remote, and dropped back down to the couch, hammering the pause button.

“There. Better?”

Fitz locked eyes with her, raised an eyebrow.

“I'm staying for moral support.” She asserted, then patted the couch cushion beside her. “Come on. Don't be a chicken about it, Fitz.”

With a sigh, he joined her on the couch, staring at his phone screen, and the name and number glowing there. It felt like an eternity before he tapped the call button, and lifted the phone to his ear.

Next to him, Jemma could hear the dull sound of ringing on the line. Once. Twice. Three times.

Maybe he was busy...

“ _Hello?_ ”

Or not.

Jemma grinned, squeezing Fitz's free arm.

“Um. Hi. Grant? Or, I guess, Agent Wa--”

“ _\--Grant's... Grant's fine. Leo?_ ”

“Fitz.”

A quiet laugh. “ _Right. I should have known that. It's what your nametag says_.”

“You can call me Leo, if you want.” Fitz offered. Jemma pressed her lips together.

“ _How about... we start with Fitz? I mean, since it's what you seem to prefer_.”

She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. She was pretty sure Fitz would let Ward call him 'Pippi Longstocking'. Maybe that was giving her best friend too little credit for his susceptibility to his crushes.

“That sounds great.” Fitz agreed. There was a few seconds of silence, and then he ventured on. “I wanted to return your call from earlier...”

“ _Yeah..._ ” Another pause. This was ridiculous. “ _I'm sorry, again, for not getting back to you. I was kind of shocked at how forward you were, suddenly. Darcy kept saying she doubted you'd make a move. Of course, I don't think I was supposed to hear that..._ ”

Fitz groaned, and Jemma squeezed her eyes shut, trying hard to fight a laugh. If Darcy had been saying anything to that effect with Ward in Weaver's, she'd definitely meant for him to hear. “Sorry. I mean, for the forwardness. And Darcy.”

“ _Don't apologise. For either. Darcy's... Darcy, and I kind of liked the forwardness_.”

Jemma frowned. They were flirting. She was listening to her best friend flirt with his FBI agent crush over the phone, with the image of a large shark eating someone in the snow.

What a weird night.

“I'm. That's. Okay, that's good,” Fitz said. Again, a long pause settled between them. Jemma waved a hand to get Fitz's attention, and mouthed 'Dinner? Date? Movie?'. Fitz nodded, but as he opened his mouth, Ward seemed to find his own tongue.

“ _I was wondering if you were free this weekend._ ” He started. “ _I'm free, and I was thinking maybe we do something? It's supposed to be nice, we could swing by the zoo, or something? Get lunch or dinner?_ ” He didn't sound very sure of himself, but if he was mentioning the zoo, that meant that Fitz not making a move wasn't the only thing he'd overheard coming out of Darcy's mouth. There was probably a whole lot of something about monkeys mentioned, too. Fitz's favorite animal. “ _It's all right if you're busy_.”

“I'm free.” Fitz said, blunt, hard, to the point. “I'm absolutely free and I would love to go to the zoo with you. Saturday?”

There was another laugh, this one less quiet, and a lot more enthused. Oh, that was _such_ a good sign. “ _Saturday. That sounds perfect. Are you working tomorrow?_ ”

“I am,” Fitz answered. “I'm closing.” As usual.

“ _I'll come by once I'm off work. Might be late. We can talk a little, maybe? Hammer out details. I'll text you tomorrow, if that's okay_?”

“Perfect. I'll talk to you and see you tomorrow,” Fitz said. “Goodnight, Grant.”

“ _Goodnight, Fitz_.”

Fitz pulled the phone away from his ear, tapping the 'end call' button, and taking a big breath. Jemma was grinning, wide, full of excitement for him, and when he looked at her, the look in his eyes was excitement, triumph, and just a little bit of anxiety.

“I guess,” he started. “I've got a date.”

 

 

 

Skye didn't know what time it was. She didn't even know, exactly, which one of their rooms they were in. They'd stumbled down the hallway, a mess of hands and mouths, and chosen the first one they made it through the door of. Miles' room was safely at the end of the hall, so chances were that wasn't where they'd ended up. Besides, if they had, Skye was sure that they would have been hearing some very angry exclamations right now, as they fell onto the bed.

Lance tasted like whiskey, and bad ideas, and maybe that was what Skye needed most right now. Lord knew, going after something that tasted like strawberries and laughter – at least, that's what she assumed Jemma would taste like – wasn't what she was cut out for. Jemma Simmons was a prodigy, a genius, a gift to mankind, and Skye was a glorified hacker. It had been good that Fitz had barged in when he did.

Lance's hands were on her hips, under her skirt, fingers curling in the band of her underwear, tugging it down while he leaned over and kissed her again.

God, _yes_ , this was what she wanted.

It didn't take much more fumbling before they were tangled up on the bed, Lance a hard, tempting weight against her, her whole body honed and ready for this. His pants and boxers were gone, her shirt was probably in the living room, and her skirt was bunched around her waist. Her fingers were laced behind his head, keeping him close while they kissed, open and wanting, and drunk, they were so drunk.

God, _no_ , this wasn't what she wanted.

“Stop,” Skye muttered, pulling back from Lance. She put her hands on the sides of his face, pulling him back a little more. “No, stop. No, we don't... I don't...”

She could feel the prick of tears building behind her eyes, and she snarled, letting go of Lance to wipe at them angrily. She wouldn't cry over this.

“Skye?” Lance moved, getting off her to lay on his side next to where she was defiantly refusing to let any tears fall. “Did I... Skye, did I do something?”

“No,” she groaned. “I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me.”

Even without properly seeing his face, Skye could picture the raise of eyebrows and hanging jaw that the Brit was giving her. “You... know that's a classic line that means the opposite, right?”

Skye laughed, turning to face him. The movement was a mistake; one lone tear escaped from the corner of her eye, trailing down her cheek. “Yeah, but I actually mean it. It's me. It's not that you're not a great lay, but...”

“But,” Lance filled in for her, in the silence she'd left. “You want Jemma.”

Skye was quiet, eyes on the bedsheets as her finger traced the nonsensical pattern on them. “I want Jemma.” she confirmed.

Considering she'd just spent the better part of a week telling Jemma she was falling for Lance again – a ruse partially meant to convince her that she, _herself,_ was falling for Lance again – Skye wasn't sure how 'wanting' Jemma, and 'getting to be with' Jemma was going to turn out.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz and Ward make concrete plans for their date, and Skye works on repairing the minor rift between her and Jemma. Meanwhile, Izzy and Victoria take a little trip.

Maybe, just maybe, there were a few too many people in Weaver's that night, but Skye figured it could be forgiven. By Fitz. Eventually. Jemma had made noise about how it wasn't polite of them to eavesdrop on his potential date-plan-making with Ward, but Skye had insisted. It had been nice to see that Jemma wasn't going to turn her down for this plan, when she insisted. It had been longer than Skye cared to admit since they'd spent more than an hour in each other's company.

She knew, rationally, that was her fault, again. She was the one who had been calling things off and making things difficult, not working in the usual girl time that they usually banked on, and trying to make Jemma – and herself – believe that she wanted nothing more than to hop into bed on a more permanent basis with Lance Hunter. After the other night, and realizing that Plan B wasn't going to work out so well, she'd gotten a little more invested in seeing if Jemma maybe, just possibly, thought they could go somewhere.

But, for all their openness, it wasn't exactly easy to sit down at a table with her best friend and blurt out, 'Hey, so, wanna be my girlfriend, in the kissing-with-tongues kinda way?'

Just the thought of doing so made Skye's stomach seize up in a nasty knot.

Fitz sent a withering look towards their table, and Skye waved her fingers back. “I don't think he appreciates our cheerleading.”

“We're not going to _actually_ be cheerleading, are we?” Lance asked, leaning forward.

Ah, yeah.

The one problem with the whole idea that this was a 'girl's only' cheer squad. She'd accidentally invited Lance along. He'd asked what her plans were for the night, and when she'd said that she was planning on eavesdropping on Fitz's pre-date with Jemma, he'd been only too excited to come along. Part of her suspected that he was just looking to do some celebrating on a weeknight; Izzy had taken him into the office that morning and, surprising him, and most of them, named him her business partner. Hartley's Contracting was quickly becoming a Name that people wanted attached to their building projects, and she was going to need the added support. Skye definitely agreed that it deserved some level of celebration – and on Saturday night, she would be damn happy to do it with alcohol, so they wouldn't all be nursing hangovers, toddling into work the next day.

In typical Lance Hunter fashion, though, he wasn't quite quick enough to catch on that the idea had been to spend some time with Jemma, again, like things hadn't been weirdly off-kilter between the two girls for the last few weeks. By the time he had caught on, he was sitting down at the table with his latte, and there was no way to excuse himself without seeming awkward. Especially because he'd admitted to not having any other plans when Fitz had hissed at them that they had to have something – _anything –_ better to do than what they were planning.

“Oh, did you forget your pom-poms?” Jemma asked, a hint of sarcastic in her tones, even while her smile was sugar-sweet. Lance leveled a flat look in her direction.

“They're in the mail.”

“Oh, gosh,” Skye chimed in, mimicking Jemma's smile, propping her head up on her chin. “That's too bad. Does that mean you have to leave?”

Her suggestion was voice sweet as pie, but it didn't escape Lance's notice that she was hinting that he hit the road. In the space of a second, his eyes narrowed in a way that clearly said 'Not smooth enough, girl', and he shook his head. “And miss the show?”

“There isn't going to be a 'show'.” Fitz's tone was deadpan, and his facial expression matched it. It was approaching midnight, and the three of them where huddled up in the table along the bar, the only customers in the shop. They were close enough to hear every minute detail of his conversation with Ward, should it happen. They were also close enough to have noticed that Fitz was getting antsy, as he waited. He'd cleaned the counters twice since Darcy left – unhappily; she'd pouted spectacularly when Skye had told her what was going to be _going down_ in the shop that night, because she and Ian had a movie date – and there had only been a single customer in that time. He'd changed coffee filters, wiped down the registers; it was almost sad, how nervous he was. Now, as he stood next to the bar, across from their table, his hands were carefully shoved in his apron pockets, as though to keep them from fidgeting. “He's coming in so that we can make plans to meet up and hang out at the zoo.”

“' _Hang out at the zoo'”_ Lance mimicked, complete with air quotes.

“It's pretty bad when Lance Hunter is mocking you, Fitz,” pointed out Skye, tone gentle. “You can say you're going on a date with him.”

Jemma shook her head. “Don't push so much,” she admonished. “He's nervous. Of course he isn't going to use the word 'date' right at this moment; he's still trying to convince himself that's _actually_ what's going to be happening on Saturday.” She seemed oblivious to Fitz's annoyed look, though, Skye knew, she wasn't. She was merely unaffected by it. No one knew the ins and outs of Leopold Fitz's psychology quite so well as Jemma Simmons.

Even if he didn't like to admit it.

“Date, hanging out, what does it matter what I say? I didn't realize I was going to be policed for my choice of words.” As Fitz spoke, Skye's eyes were drawn to the set of headlights pulling into the parking spot in front of the shop windows. A very distinctive set of headlights that she had come to associate with Fitzbot 2000's appearance.

“Well, you might want to turn around, because your hunk of federal policing is about to walk in here.”

The effect that suggestion had on not only Fitz, but the other two occupants of their table, was immediate and almost hilarious.

Lance picked up his latte and lifted it to his mouth, prepared to take a sip the second Ward walked in. Jemma turned slightly in her seat, and crossed her one leg over the other, propping her chin on her hand, and grinning radiantly at Skye. It was lucky that Skye had heard Fitz's muffled curse and seen him pull his hands free of his apron, heading towards the counter, before she saw that smile. Jemma's damn smile almost made her brain short-circuit.

God, she was more hopeless than Fitz, wasn't she?

The three of them went to great pains to pretend like they were engaged in an intriguing conversation – about Jemma's med school studies – when Ward walked in. It was amazing how Jemma could carry on a story about dissecting a human heart while listening to what was happening at the counter. Skye regretted that she wasn't wholly focused on the story – she'd have to get Jemma to retell it later. Lance, for his part, looked suitably disturbed. He probably wasn't actually listening to what was going on at the counter, judging by that face. Skye would have to fill him in when it was over.

“Evening,” Fitz greeted. He sounded easier, more laid back, than he had in previous interactions that she'd witnessed with Ward, and that was a feat, considering how antsy and nervous he'd been, just seconds before. “Well, er, I mean, it's technically not evening anymore, is it? We're looking more at night or... Well, you know.”

Ah, there were the nerves. Skye suspected that the widening of Jemma's smile had less to do with the other student who had run to vomit, and more to do with Fitz's tripping over his greeting.

“Evening,” Ward replied, and without looking at him, Skye could hear the smile in his voice. _That_ was weird. In all the time she'd lived across the hall from him, and seen him come into Weaver's, she hadn't gotten the impression that a smile was a simple thing to gain from him. That he was smiling, already, and seeming warm with Fitz? That _had_ to bode well. “How're you doing?”

“Not bad,” Fitz answered. “At work, so... You know, can't be all that astoundingly good, but it's not terrible. No one's nearly thrown their coffee in my face. Tonight, anyway.”

Good. Jokes. That was good.

“People actually do that? Assholes.”

Oh. A little protective, were we, Agent Ward? Skye smirked a little, and continued to listen.

“It is L.A.” Fitz said. There was a slight pause, and then he continued. “Did you want a drink, tonight?”

“Might as well. The usual,” said Ward, and there was another pause, this one not so silent, as Fitz rang him up and poured the coffee. Ward must have offered a gratuitous tip, again, because Fitz muttered something that sounded like 'that's really not necessary', and Skye thought she heard Ward mutter back 'please, take it'.

Another pause.

Lance cleared his throat, and Skye kicked him under the table. His yelp drew looks from both Fitz and Ward, but she waved it off. “God, don't be so rude while Jem's telling a story, Lance.” She scolded, keeping their cover – as non-eavesdropping coffee enthusiasts – intact, before she grinned at Jemma. “Keep going, I'm loving this story so far.”

It worked, in more ways than one. Ward seemed to take their little performance to mean that they weren't focusing on what was being shared himself and Fitz, and got right down to business. “So, uh, Saturday. How did you want to do this?”

“Oh,” Fitz seemed almost startled by how quickly Ward got down to things. “I... Well... What are the options?”

Skye risked glancing over. Fitz had his arms crossed on the top of the register, and was leaned forward to talk to Ward. For his part, Ward was standing with his hip leaned against the counter next to the register, close and friendly.

“Well, I can pick you up here, or at your place,” Ward offered. “I would assume your place would be easier? You wouldn't have to spend the time getting here.”

“That would be great, actually.” Fitz agreed. “And then would we head to the zoo?”

“Seems like the best idea.” concluded Ward. “And, uh, I mean, if you're not sick of my company by then-” Self-deprecating humour. Sexy. “-Maybe we can do dinner? Doesn't have to be anything fancy. I'm a fan of street-meat, myself, so I can do whatever.” The last bits were spoken fast, giving Fitz the chance to laugh, or immediately decline, and, from where Skye sat, anyway, betraying that maybe Ward was just as nervous about this as Fitz.

He was kind of uptight. Maybe the guy hadn't actually dated a whole lot.

“Monkeys and hot dogs from a cart on a busy street?” Fitz asked. He paused a second, but then forged ahead, almost like he made himself skittish by giving Ward that time to answer. “I'd actually love that, I really would. And I'm not as obsessed with monkeys as Darcy probably said, I'm just interested. It's...” He trailed off, and Skye, without looking, knew he was probably making some complicated hand gesture that was somehow meant to explain just what his monkey interest actually _was_. Ward's laugh filled the space that hand gesture left.

It wasn't nasty, it was endeared, almost fond, and quiet. “I think you're trying to hide some kind of monkey obsession from me, Fitz.” He said. He would be right. “I guess I'll see on Saturday.”

Fitz made a sound that Skye knew to be his mildly, but amicably, embarrassed chuckle. Probably accompanied by his brightest smile. He would woo Ward flawlessly with this conversation alone, if that was the case. “You will. Um... Noon? Is that too early?”

“Definitely not. We'll probably spend a lot of time waiting in line, anyway, so we'll need that early start.”

“Too true,” Fitz's voice made it evident that he was well-aware of the kind of traffic the zoo would attract on a Saturday. “Can I... Is it all right if I text you?”

“I'd be pretty okay with that,” answered Ward.

Skye could have punched the air on Fitz's behalf. She restrained herself by taking a second to be astounded that Jemma was still holding up their cover with her med school story.

“Awesome. That's... Thanks.”

“Thank _you._ ” There was the sound of shifting, and when Skye glanced over, she saw Ward was straightening up, coffee in hand. “I guess... I should go and let you close up, huh? Sorry I came in so late, I had some paperwork to finish.”

Right. It was ten to midnight. The shop closed in ten minutes.

“Don't be sorry for that. I'm just glad you made it, and we were able to figure out our plans.” Fitz was straightening, too, almost broken out of the reverie Ward's closeness had put him in. “I'm really excited for Saturday.”

“Me too,” Ward agreed, heading for the door. “Until then, feel free to text, and I'll see you at noon on Saturday when I pick you up...” he paused. “I guess that means you should text me your address.”

Fitz laughed. “I will. And I'll have gas money for you, too, since you're driving us.”

Ward made a noise that sounded like ' _pfft_ '. “You don't need to give me gas money, Fitz.” The little bell over the door jingled as he opened it and stepped out. “We're going on a _date_.”

He left the shop, and Skye, Jemma and Lance all stiffened. Jemma had stopped talking the moment the door had swung closed, but it wasn't until the headlights in the lot turned on, and pulled away, that any of them – Fitz included – dared to move.

“Mate,” Lance announced, the first of them to speak. “You'd best shag that man, because I think he's sweet on you.”

 

 

The site wasn't much, at least, not currently. It was, essentially, a skeleton, but it was a skeleton that was going to have a huge effect on the direction of her life, going forward. Her's, and Tori's. For as long as Isabelle Hartley had owned Hartley's Contracting, she'd worked hard to make a name for herself and her company. It was important to her that she provided quality work and that the subcontractors she hired lived up to the expectation they had led to to expect. Every project was thoroughly researched, down to the nickel content in doorknobs.

Well, maybe that was going too far, but it had been something Lance once used on a potential client, and it seemed to work rather well to break the ice.

And now, this.

This site would, in the future, be two twenty storey buildings that would house new offices and facilities for one of the major movie and music companies. It had been amazing to land the contract, and Izzy had been working round the clock – as had the boys, in shifts – to make sure that everything was going smoothly, amid their other contracts. The ground had been broken here, and construction was underway. As the contractor, she had certain rights to be where she was, and the security guard that was patrolling the area had been only too happy to let her and Victoria by.

It was almost funny, seeing Tori in a space so unlike the pristine FBI office she was normally in when she wore a suit. The sun was long since set – it was after midnight, after all – and the ground they were walking on was nothing but dirt. The skeleton of the started buildings arched above them, beams crossing, platforms set across them where the construction teams had been working earlier in the day. Victoria Hand was the head of the Violent Crimes Division of the FBI, and while her job definitely dealt with more 'dirt', seeing her standing with her shined black shoes in the overturned dirt at the edge of the site brought a wry smile to Izzy's face.

“So, this is it.” She announced, spreading her arms wide. They had gone out for dinner before spinning by the site. Tori had insisted. She wanted to see the site, the one that was making her girlfriend work such long hours for the last few weeks. Not that Tori didn't work long hours herself.

They had to laugh at themselves, sometimes. They worked so much, it was surprising they had any time for each other. Somehow, admit the construction and the crime, they made time, though.

Tori's insistence that she get to see the site had been amusing, at first, but it had collided, or, really, delayed, Izzy's other plans for the evening. Ones that rested on the contents of the ringbox weighing heavily in her jacket pocket as they stood in the gloom, looking into the pit of the sub-basement. Now, Izzy began to wonder if this was where they were meant to do it.

“It really is impressive,” Tori said, looking up into the beams. “I'm so proud of you, for landing this. You're really going to get the recognition you deserve when this finishes.” She turned to Izzy, again, smiling, the streetlights outside the site reflected in the lenses of her thick-framed glasses. “I suppose it's worth the bed being empty for a few hours every night.”

Izzy laughed, and leaned forward, an invitation for a kiss. “You act like I don't allow you the same, Miss VCD Head.” Tori took the bait, easily, giving her a small peck, before gesturing that they should maybe walk the perimeter of the site.

“You do. You're very accommodating, Miss Hartley,” she said, as they walked. There wasn't much that was different to be seen, just the same skeleton and pit from different angles, but Izzy appreciated that Tori was so involved and interested in her work. “However could I make it up to you?”

Tori had a way of delivering jokes in a dry tone that might throw others off. Way off. Izzy had gotten used to it, over time. It had taken a bit, though. When they had first met, it had actually been something that had driven her crazy about the other woman. She didn't mind dry humour, but Victoria Hand had done it in a way that was almost insufferable.

And then, somehow, Izzy had fallen in love with that insufferably dry humour.

To absolutely no one's surprise, it turned out. No one's except her own.

Now, as the two of them walked the perimeter of her work site, and bantered back and forth, she realized she never should have been surprised. They fit so well together, and understood where the other stood, and came from, so well, that there was no room for pretending this hadn't always been a foregone conclusion. As they walked around that perimeter, and Izzy came to that conclusion, she realized something else, less related to her love of Tori's dry humour, and related, more to the relationship they had formed, and the happy, warm feeling that was enveloping them now, in this impossible place for them to be after midnight when they both had to be to work before eight in the morning.

That ringbox in her pocket was particularly heavy for a reason.

And maybe this moment was why.

“Tori?” she asked, gentle, interrupting the other woman's thought. Her smile, she hoped, was apology enough. “Can we stop for a sec?”

Tori stopped, her brows furrowing in confusion, though she nodded. “Yes... Is everything all right?”

Izzy nodded, reaching into her pocket. “Yes. Let me just make sure I'm doing this ri--”

She didn't get to finish her sentence, but not because of some cliché thing like Tori knowing what she was about to do, and stopping her.

This was why they hired security guards for these sites. To stop things like this from happening.

As she'd been in the process of extracting the ringbox from her jacket, hands had landed on her shoulder, the one opposite the pit. The speed and force that the assailant came at her made it impossible to stop her stumble, or to regain her balance. She was going to go over the edge of the pit.

And Tori, stumbling into her with a shout, was going down, too.

Izzy never got a clear glimpse of the figures in all black who had rushed them. She was too busy trying to save Tori from falling with her; a fruitless, desperate action.

The forgotten ringbox hit the dirt with a quiet _tup_ and Victoria Hand and Isabelle Hartley fell over the edge of the pit.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work hits close to home for one of the FBI Agents, and Hartley's Contracting deals with the fallout of the attack on Izzy and Victoria.

The office was a flurry of activity when Trip and Ward walked in the next morning, and there was a very obvious reason for that. The simple fact of the matter was that it was four in the morning and no one should have been in the office, unless there was a damn good reason for the hodge-podge of FBI agents to be roused from their sleep. Filed under damn good reason were things like multiple hostage situations already carrying a death toll, hijiackings, attempted assassinations, and attacks on the FBI, or their agents, within that particular division.

The reason Ward had been roused from just barely achieving sleep was closest to the last header.

Someone had tried to kill the head of their department. Someone had made an attempt on the life of Victoria Hand.

Not just Hand, either. Her long-time girlfriend, Isabelle Hartley had also been targeted. Considering that the incident had occurred on site at a job that Hartley's business was contracting, there was good evidence to suggest that the incident had been aimed at her.

But Hand was a high-ranking FBI agent. The agency couldn't just rule out that she, too, had been the primary target of this action.

“So, what exactly happened?” Grant asked, approaching a small group of agents that included Felix Blake and Antoine and Grant's mentor, John Garett. “All I heard was someone tried to kill Hand.”

Garrett shook his head. “They didn't do a very good job of it, if they were trying.” He said. It was strange to say it the way he did, but it was Garrett's style. “Vic and her girl were out at that construction site of hers, and someone tried to push them into the pit. If they'd done it at any other part, the fall probably would have killed them. Attacker wasn't smart, though.”

Grant frowned. “How so?” Trip asked, in his place.

“The part of the pit they were standing over just happened to be the corner where the construction company was leaving materials for installing pipping, and building the floor. Things are still pretty touch and go for Hand and Hartley, but they landed on those materials.” Blake's mouth was a grim line, even as he carried over the news that the two women were safe and sound, for all intents and purposes at the time being. “Knocked them out and we're looking at serious bodily injury, but they aren't dead.”

“Damn,” Trip breathed. Grant agreed. It wasn't the ideal situation, not at all, but if the attackers had intended for Hard and Hartley to die from their injuries, they hadn't done a very good job. “No one has any leads?”

Blake opened his mouth to answer, but in that same second, someone hollered from the opposite side of the office for quiet. Instantly, the group quieted. Phil Coulson stood facing all of them next to Maria Hill. With what had happened to Victoria Hand, she would be taking charge of the division, and, more than likely, would be running the ops that worked towards finding out exactly what had happened, tonight.

“Thank you all for coming so late – or, I guess, early,” Coulson started, his company smile on his face. It was the one that was both amicable and businesslike. It made you wonder what Coulson was really thinking. There was a lot going on in that head, Grant knew. He liked Coulson. “We're obviously sorry to have roused you all so early, but you know. Comes with the territory. Agent Hill would like to talk with you all now regarding the events of tonight, so, please, give her your full attention. Thank you.”

With that, he waved the attention off to Hill, who looked up from where she'd been consulting her phone. It was an action there were all used to see. Maria Hill was Victoria Hand's second in command when it came to this division. Hill was consistently in contact with deputies and heads of other divisions, with police officers and captains. Tonight, especially, she wouldn't be able to go too long before her phone was filled with messages; information and inquiries. Despite that, and the early hour, she looked as put together as always, dark hair swept back from her face in a ponytail, eyes alert. Though she wasn't in a suit like Coulson was (and his was perpetual; there was an office joke that claimed he had a pair of pajamas that was _also_ a suit), she exuded authority. The room was hers, instantly.

“This morning, approximately twenty minutes after midnight, Agent Victoria Hand and her partner, Isabelle Hartley, had an attempt made on their lives, at the site of one of Ms. Hartley's building contracts.” Hill paused, making sure everyone was still following along. It wasn't hard to guess that everyone had made the connection between being woken up and ordered into the office to early, and Hand's absence, even if they hadn't been informed of what had occurred. There were a few scattered murmurs, but they were quiet and brief, over before Hill continued. “The assailants, at least two, came upon Agent Hand and Ms. Hartley while they walked the perimeter of the site, and attempted to kill them by pushing them into the pit that was dug for the foundation of the building. Thankfully, due to landing on building materials only a dozen feet down, rather than the concrete floor another dozen feet below, both women are alive, though injured. They were discovered around 0130 hours by one of the security guards patrolling the site, and he notified emergency services. The attackers were not seen by himself to be arriving or leaving, nor either of the other two guards on site.”

Ward knew what she would be saying next.

“We have taken all three of the night duty guards into custody, and they will be questioned, alongside their supervisor.”

It only made sense. It was possible the security guards could have done it, or been in on it, though, right now, Grant couldn't work out a motive for any of them. That would have to come after the interrogations were complete. He suspected he, himself, or Garrett, would be put on those. They were both noted for their interrogation tactics; their success rates spoke for themselves.

“Added to that, we have seized all surveillance footage from the site. Unfortunately, the cameras only viewed the perimeter fence of the site, and not the interior. Our top analysts are on it now, looking to see if the attackers are seen breaching the site, and where any blind spots may be in the cameras' view, if any.”

If the attackers had come onto the site through a blind spot in the surveillance, that meant that they would have had to have either had an intimate knowledge of the way the surveillance system worked, or they would have had to have been endowed with serious amounts of dumb luck. At this point, it really could be either. They wouldn't know until the analysts with done with the video footage.

“That being said,” Hill continued. “I will be acting Head of Violent Crimes until Agent Hand is back at full health. Any inquiries about her condition can be brought to me directly, though, I would ask that you perhaps refrain for the first 24 hours, as, not only will we all be busy, but the hospital has requested light visitation while they work to ensure that both Agent Hand and Ms. Hartley remain in stable condition.” She took a breath, looking around the room. “Some of you without active cases will be assigned to this case. We have yet to determine if both women, or just one, was the target of this attack. While we are doubtful that it was random violence, that may also very well be the case. As you all know, these things are hard to predict until we've looking into the data more thoroughly.

“Those of you with active cases will be expected to continue work on them. This isn't something that we need full manpower on, and we will be leaving some of you free, in order to deal with incoming cases. We all know that crime doesn't just stop because we ask it to, politely.” There was a small chuckle that went through the room. Almost humourless in its cadence. Ironic. “Until this matter is resolved, however, I do need to impress upon all of you that personal safety, and the safety of your loved ones, should be one of your foremost thoughts. I know it is something that everyone in this room is concerned with, even as a background worry, at all times, but until we understand the nature of this attack, please keep yourselves safe. I don't want to lose any more agents to the hospital, or worse, the morgue.”

There was no chuckle this time. Hill was right. As FBI agents they all actively accepted that at any time they could come under attack. Random, or motivated, and even when they were random they were in some way motivated by the badge these people wore. It was one of the occupational hazards you simply accepted by joining the FBI, but Hill's reminder wasn't brushed off. Not by a single person in the room. Grant could still smell the faint floral scent on Trip, the one he always associated with Raina, because he hadn't been able to shower before leaving for the office. They all had people they wanted to protect, outside of themselves. Their job was far from being without danger and the potential for collateral damage was high.

It may have very well been what had led to Isabelle Hartley joining Hand in that pit.

“On that grim note,” Hill said, and here, there was a small chuckle. Humourless humour, the brand of the FBI. “Would Agents Garrett, Blake, Coulson, May and Morse please join me in my office? The rest of you, hang tight for a little bit.”

That was good enough as permission to speak again, and Trip and Ward both spotted Bobbi in the crowd, giving her nods as she raised a hand in greeting. Her hair was pulled back in an easy yet complicated knot, and she was wearing a untucked button-down blouse over grey slacks. She looked tired, but alert, at the same time. Ward briefly wondered if he and Trip looked the same. A quick scan of the room said 'probably'. Every one of these agents had been woken in the dead of night and told to come into the office. Everyone looked it, except Garrett, but that more than likely boiled down to the fact that he _always_ wore a black turtleneck and dark pants. The presence of his usual outfit, day in and day out, made him seem more put together than he really was.

Garrett and Blake pulled away from their group to join Coulson, May and Bobbi in Hill's office, and Trip took that as an apparent clue. With a light nudge against Ward's side with his elbow, he led the way to their shared workspace, dropping into his chair with a small sigh. “Work, huh?”

“Yeah,” Grant agreed, thinking Trip had the right idea, and pulling out his own chair. Sitting felt really good, probably because there were parts of his body and brain that still weren't awake, even with the adrenaline coursing through his system. “Christ, I can't believe that happened to her... Them. I mean, Of all the places? What were the chances that they would even be there? I didn't hear Hand talking about taking a midnight stroll around a construction site, but, correct me if I'm wrong, she _doesn't seem like the type_.”

Trip snorted, rubbing a hand over his face. “That's because she's not. Just makes me think it was random, you know?”

Ward nodded, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out. It was going to be a very, very long day, but that's what he'd signed up for when he joined the FBI. There would be a lot of trips to Starbucks, today.

 

 

Investigations into murder attempts could turn up a lot of things that, otherwise, wouldn't seem suspicious. Bobbi Morse was keenly aware of that, only because she'd been doing the job that she had for a while. Everything could be suspicious, if you looked at it in the right way, even the placement of a carton of milk in a fridge.

That wasn't to say that Isabelle Hartley had any suspiciously placed milk in her fridge, but she may as well have.

Bobbi and May had been given the task of investigating and following up on any leads that were evident in Isabelle Hartley's life for why the two women had been attacked. Izzy, despite being closely twined with Lance, was still someone that Bobbi considered a good friend. Maybe they didn't go out for coffee every week and they weren't texting or e-mailing each other every other day, but still, she considered her a good friend.

That relationship had been something that Hill had questioned when she had first had the five of them in her office. Sitting between May and Blake, Morse had flatly answered the question exactly as Hill had wanted to hear it: No, it would not be a problem for her to work a case that was related to a friend of hers, nor would it be a problem to work a case that may take her into contact with her ex-husband. Bobbi had no issues being around Lance, she merely had issues with Lance's childish behaviours when it came to her, and those could easily be forgotten in the line of duty. Finally, no, she didn't have issues being put on an investigation that could have her unearthing things about people she knew that she may not want to know. She was an FBI agent; that was all part of the job description.

Hill had been pleased with her answers; the men in the room had been impressed. May had simply taken them as they were.

Melinda May was an enigma of a woman, and maybe that was why Bobbi liked working with her so much. May was efficient, effective, and very, very skilled. She had a wry, hidden sense of humour, too, that you could unearth if you knew her long enough. Having worked with her as long as she had, Bobbi liked to think that she had known her long enough to know that sense of humour. She also felt they'd worked together long enough to have easily and simply come to a state of understanding and respect on both sides. Bobbi wouldn't have needed May to vouch for her in Hill's office, but she knew that the other woman would have.

After they had left Hill's office, they had run across the street with Trip and Ward to grab coffee. There had been some needling of Ward concerning _his_ barista, and the good news had come out that the two had date plans on Saturday. May, quietly, with her special brand of humour, had taken the credit for finally getting Ward to find his courage and call the guy. It had all been rather friendly, and for a few minutes, they had all forgotten that they were only this alert and awake while the sun was barely beginning to creep over the horizon because the head of their division had experienced a murder attempt.

It had been nice.

That feeling, of course, had worn off when she and May had gotten into May's car and headed over to the office that housed Hartley's Contracting, shortly after seven in the morning.

It was time to go to work.

When they pulled up in front of the building, warrant safely tucked in Bobbi's jacket pocket, there was only one other vehicle sitting outside; Mack's truck. He got out when he saw them, smiling and greeting Bobbi with a hug. It had been too long, and she felt bad. Not only for not seeing him sooner, but because she was going to have to be the one to break the news to him. They had informed her that Izzy wasn't exactly lucid, and so wouldn't have been able to make the calls to tell the guys that she would need them to take care of things for the next few days. It fell to Bobbi and May to be the bearers of bad news.

“Can we head in?” Bobbi asked, gently, noting the way Mack looked at May. It was suspicious, but it was rather curious, and for good reason. The fact that they were both wearing their FBI jackets probably didn't help matters.

Then there was the fact that Izzy wasn't here yet. True, it wasn't quite eight, yet, and she still had plenty of time to show up. That was probably why Mack didn't seem _more_ concerned with their presence. She was sure he would be, in a moment.

“We could, but Izzy's not here yet, and only she and Lance have keys. He'll probably be here shortly, too, but not before Izzy.”

“Lance has keys?” Bobbi asked, perplexed. That was news to her. She thought, if anyone would have keys, it would be Mack. He was the most together and mature of the bunch, at least, in her eyes, aside from Izzy herself.

“Oh, yeah. Izzy named him partner yesterday.” Mack smiled, but it was edged with caution. The two of them didn't like making their conversations about Lance, as a rule. Unfortunately, given what he'd just said? This conversation just might have to go down that route. It was a gloomy Wednesday morning, and Bobbi was about to frame the possibility that her ex-husband could be involved in the attempt on Isabelle Hartley's life.

That was the metaphorical milk carton that had been placed suspiciously.

“Okay, well, Mack, I have some bad news,” Bobbi started. “First, this is Agent Melinda May, she's my partner. Second, there was an incident last night. Izzy's in the hospital. She won't be coming in today.”

Mack looked shocked, stunned. It was appropriate. He looked like someone had just left him adrift on the ocean, and it was a second before he came back to himself. “Is she okay? Which hospital? Can we go see her? When did this happen?”

Bobbi raised a hand, attempting to calm him. “She's stable. Everything else can come later, but right now, I'm here as a FBI agent, investigating this as a violent crime. I'm going to need access to Izzy's computer, and files. Once Lance gets here, can we get that?”

Mack nodded. “Yeah. I understand, Bobbi, just... When did this happen, and what happened?”

While they waited for Lance, Bobbi explained the situation as it had been explained to her. Mack's expression became darker with every minute. It wasn't a pretty picture to explain, and she felt much the same as he looked. She was just finishing up when Lance pulled into the lot.

And so it began...

He didn't waste much time in getting out of his car, raising his eyebrows at Bobbi, looking back and forth between her and Mack, before speaking. “Uh. Good morning?”

“Lance.” Bobbi greeted. “We need to talk. Can you open the office, please?”

“What?” Lance seemed stunned by the fact that Bobbi was talking to him, and for a moment forgot about the set of keys he was holding in his hands. Once the realization fell into place, though, he was into action, unlocking the door to the office and leading the way in with a brisk 'come on in, make yourselves at home'. As they crossed the threshold, Bobbi saw Idaho's car joining them. Good, at least she would only have to go over all of this one more time.

Her ex-husband headed for Izzy's office, unlocking the door before dropping his keys on what Bobbi assumed was his desk – last time she had been here, there had only been one desk in the room – and shucking off his jacket. “You here on official federal business, Bob?”

Bobbi caught May's glance, and her raised eyebrows. The acid in Lance's voice wasn't hard to disguise. Maybe it would never go away, or maybe it was just making a reappearance after their brief encounter at Ward's apartment building.

“Actually, I am.” Bobbi answered. Lance made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a derisive snort.

“Can't imagine what that would be.”

Bobbi opened her mouth to reply, but Mack spoke first. “Lance, Izzy's in the hospital.”

“Holy shit, what?”

That came from the direction of the door, where Idaho was just letting himself in. He looked just as stricken as the line of Lance's spine in front of them. Bobbi felt a tug of sympathy, of wanting to put her arms around each of the boys in turn. She'd known them all for a long time, and even if things had gone sour between her and Lance, he was still a person.

“Have a seat,” May said, speaking for her. “We will explain.”

Again, for what Bobbi hoped was the last time, she explained what they knew of the incident the night before. As she did, she knew May was watching each of them for indicators that they knew these facts already, or that they could have been involved. She had done the same with Mack, outside. It was unfortunate, but it had to be done, especially with their new revelation.

Looking at Lance, Bobbi couldn't believe that he could be tied to Izzy's attack.

But it had happened so soon after he'd been named partner. Depending on what that entailed? He could easily become suspect number one.

Bobbi ended by saying, once again, that they would need to take Izzy's computer and files from the office, and into custody, for analysis, to try and build an idea of who had done this, and why, or if it was truly just random violence. None of them put up a fight. That was a good sign.

In a few minutes, they had the computer and banker's boxes of files loaded into the truck of May's car. May gave Bobbi a nod, and got in behind the wheel. Their next stop would be Izzy and Tori's home, which they had a key for, as well as a warrant, to gather much the same intel.

Returning May's nod, Bobbi headed back into the office. Lance, Idaho and Mack were sitting in the main part of the office, all looking shell-shocked. “I promise I'll let you guys know what I can, when I can, okay?”

Mack nodded, the first of them to rise, and open his arms to her for a parting hug. Idaho was close after him. Lance didn't bother to get up, but he did give her an almost friendly nod. Bobbi mirrored it, and picked up a notepad from Idaho's desk. Scrawling on it, she explained, “This is the phone number for the hospital that Izzy and Tori are at. They're stable but I don't know the rooms, if they've been moved, you'll have to ask the nurses.”

She set the pad back down, and smiled sadly.

“Take care of yourselves, boys, and I'll let you know what I can, when I can.”

They all nodded, raising their hands in goodbye, and Bobbi headed out to join May in the car.

 

 

The last few days had been weird.

People went on and on about out of body experiences, and about feeling like you're living day to day in a haze, but Lance Hunter had always assumed that that kind of talk was reserved for New Ageists, and stoners. Not for someone who was fairly well grounded in reality, as he was, like Mack and Idaho were.

But Izzy had been attacked. She was doing well, as far as things went. Three broken ribs, a leg broken in two places, and her shoulder dislocated, along with a lot of nasty bruising. She was lucid, at times, but a lot of time was spent sleeping. Keeping her from her pain. Tori wasn't much better off. She'd dislocated her collarbone and one arm, cracked most of the ribs on one side, and fractured one ankle. She was just as black and blue as Izzy, and just as prone to spending time in Lalaland, thanks to the drugs.

They were both lucky to have been alive.

The FBI was still investigating, Lance knew, though Bobbi hadn't contacted him. That was probably another factor that added into his weird, hazy feeling the last few days. Bobbi had been out of his life for a long time. Then, one night, he sees her in the elevator landing, and a while later, she shows up at his work to tell him his boss and lifelong friend and _business partner_ has had an attempt made on her life.

For all the solitary nights he admitted to himself that he missed Bobbi, he hadn't wanted her to come back into his life like this.

The apartment door opened, and Lance looked up. Skye was in the doorway, smiling, tight, as she closed the door behind her and kicked off her shoes. “Hey,” she greeted, soft. “How you doing tonight?”

“Could be worse,” he admitted, raising his beer bottle in greeting. The television was playing some ad for women's razors. “How was work?”

“Not bad,” Skye said. “It was work.” She stood in the living room for a second, seemingly to argue with her own words, before asking. “Do you want to go out, tonight? Just you and me. We can go to McDonald's and walk around downtown or something. Just to get you out of here, somewhere that isn't the office.”

He hadn't been anywhere but the apartment and the office for the last two days. Calling the hospital once in the morning and once in the evening for updates. It wasn't an exciting life.

“We could...” He answered. He knew Skye meant well, and he owed to her to actually try and get up off his ass and _live_. Izzy wouldn't be very impressed with him when she healed if she found out that, sure, he'd been doing exemplary work on their contracts, and on keeping everyone happy and work ongoing while she was in the hospital, but he hadn't been doing much else besides vegetating on the couch. “Sounds like fun.”

Lance cracked a smile and Skye's finally reached her eyes. It was obvious how worried she had been about him. Getting him out and about would set her mind at ease, too, and it wouldn't be bad for him, he reason. Fresh air – at least, as fresh as it got in L.A. - was nature's finest cure for what ailed you.

Standing up, he drained his beer and headed towards the kitchen to add it to the collection of empties they had to get rid of. “I'll get my shoes on, and you drop your bag in your room, and then we'll go get some happy meals, all right?”

Skye laughed. “All right, sounds good.”

She wasn't out of the room for a minute before there was a knock at the door. Lance frowned, in the process of pulling on his shoes. Every now and then, some bleeding heart made the grave error of letting a door to door salesperson into the building, and then, for the next two hours, that person went door to door annoying the ever-loving shit out of every tenant they found at home. That was more than likely exactly what awaited him on the other side of that door.

With a sigh, he pulled it open, eyebrows raised, expecting to see some over-caffeinated, hyped up twenty-something with a brochure standing there.

Instead, Bobbi's big blues were what he encountered, the line of her mouth grim.

“Lance Hunter,” she said. It wasn't a question. “You're going to need to come with us.”

Skye came back into the room, looking confused and a little concerned. She had to recognize Bobbi, and if she didn't recognize Bobbi, then she had to recognize the FBI logos emblazoned on the breasts of both Bobbi and her partner's jackets.

“Sorry?” Skye asked. “What's going on? Why do you need Lance?”

“We need to take him in for questioning,” Bobbi answered, her voice that FBI tone that Lance had so hated. “Regarding the attempt on the lives of Victoria Hand and Isabelle Hartley.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday finally arrives. Leo Fitz has a zoo date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the date, finally. And the twelfth chapter. Given that it's a milestone, of sorts, I wanted to take a second to thank everyone who has left kudos on this fic, bookmarked it, subscribed to it, or commented on it. Seeing that there are so many people who are enjoying this fic has really been wonderful for me. I wanted to take a second to apologise for not responding to comments up 'til now. See, the problem is that basically every reply would have been "THANK YOU THANK YOU, YOU'RE WONDERFUL AND I LOVE YOU", and I suspect that might have gotten old after a while. Rest assured, I have read every single one and taken each to heart. I'm going to do my best to try and reach out (and be as calm as possible) to every comment from now on - and potentially some of those already waiting, so if you get a notification from a comment made two months ago, just know it's me being a dope and trying to be eloquent.
> 
> BUT. Without further ado... Chapter Twelve.  
> __________________________________________

“I feel like this newest development might throw a wrench in your romance, man.”

Ward scowled, locking his phone and lowering it as he turned to look at Trip. His partner had arrived from seemingly nowhere (the office kitchen), and invited himself to peer around Grant's shoulder at his phone screen. More than likely, he'd caught the tense line of the other's back. Grant knew well that he hadn't been calm and cool, opening the text message that he had, and that had carried over to his body language. No one had noticed, thankfully, except Trip. Everyone was too busy on their cases, or working on what had happened to Hand and her girlfriend. In the interrogation room, the blinds were closed and the door was locked. Hill was in there, along with Coulson and Garrett, all three of them questioning Lance Hunter on his whereabouts the night of the incident, and his prior knowledge of his imminent promotion to business partner.

“I thought you were on my side?” Ward grumbled, taking the cup of coffee the other offered him. It wasn't Starbucks, and it sure wasn't Weaver's, but it would do. It wasn't like coffee actually had much of a wakening effect on Ward anymore, anyway. More like drinking it satisfied that addiction in him that a good portion of the population had. It was probably why he didn't have issues falling asleep after his late night visits to Weaver's. That, and he had a tendency to just be bone tired by the time his head hit the pillow.

“I am on your side,” Trip answered, giving Ward's phone a meaningful look. “But, I mean... You know the rules.”

Ward rolled his eyes with a small sigh. “I know the rules,” he agreed. “He's not asking me to break any rules. I don't have to go into detail to answer him.”

“No...” Trip nodded along. “Until he asks you to go into detail.”

Though he knew it was just his mind playing tricks, the phone in Ward's hand felt almost hot with the text that was waiting for his reply. Up until now, Fitz had only texted him a few times a day. A hello, some time in the morning, a question of how he was doing, his own answer – it had been wonderfully wordy, something about a physics class that Ward hadn't totally followed along with – and then, later in the day, a goodnight. It was enough to warm Ward's carefully protected heart. Today had started off much the same, with a hello, but Grant had known it would only be a matter of time before the elephant in the room hit their text message conversation.

Not only was Lance Hunter one of Grant's floor neighbours, but he was also one of Leo Fitz's friends, and when your friend is taken into custody by the FBI in the same week that you're going to be going on a date with one of the agents in the very division that took that friend in, it made sense to ask questions.

And it was such an innocent question.

 

> _Do you know about my friend, Lance, your neighbour, being picked up by the FBI?_

 

Yes.

The answer was that simple. Three small letters.

Trip was right, though, and that was the issue that was truly weighing on Grant's shoulders, because the question didn't end with that answer. Not logically, anyway. Once Fitz found out that Ward knew why Hunter had been taken into custody, he wasn't going to shrug his shoulders and say 'Oh, all right, good to know _someone_ knows why!'

It would be so nice, if he would, though.

“How do you do it?” he asked, leaning on the partition by their area of the office. “How do you not discuss confidential FBI case matters with Raina?”

“We just don't talk about work.”

Ward raised his eyes, partly at how quickly Antoine had answered him, and partly at the content of his answer. “You don't talk about work?”

“Nope.”

“Never.”

“Not even a little bit?”

Trip grinned, reaching over to slap him on the arm. “Of course a _little bit_ , man! The 'how was work' questions, and all that, but past that?” He made a face, something like an unconcerned frown. “We don't make a habit of it.”

That seemed, plausible, except for the fact that Raina seemed to know a lot of things that she shouldn't have known if they didn't talk about work. “But Raina knew about Fitz...”

Trip looked almost comically offended at that. “Well... Yeah! What, you think you and I, what we have, just stops at the edge of this office?” He waggled a finger. “C'mon, man! I thought we were friends!”

“Of course we're friends,” Grant shot back, glancing around the office to see if anyone was looking their way. Trip's theatrics had a tendency to be an attention-grabber. He was very, very good at making people laugh. It was one of his many natural talents. “I don't invite Coulson to my place for pizza.”

“Oh, you should,” Trip leaned back in his chair. “He'd bring Audrey, I bet, and everyone loves Audrey.”

It was true that the senior agent's wife was something of a favourite around the office. She was just so _nice_. She came with Phil to the company Christmas parties and somehow remembered everyone's names, their significant others' names, asked after their children, all things like that. It was amusing that such a charming woman had ended up with, frankly, such a goof as Coulson. Not saying the man wasn't a damn good agent, because he wouldn't have gotten to where he was in the agency without being one. But, he was a kid, at heart. Maybe that was why he and Audrey worked so well.

“Yeah, I'll make sure I invite him to the next boys' night. Maybe Bobbi will come, too, and then you can all hear her tell me I need to get laid.”

“Which,” Trip pointed out. “Might be less likely, now that your job arrested his buddy for attempting to murder his boss.”

“Okay, hey, I wasn't angling to get laid on Saturday,” Grant said, raising a hand. “I'm at least a little bit of a decent guy.”

“News to me,” May joked on her way past. She and Bobbi had been in and out of the office all morning. The first time they'd left to go pick Hunter up again for more interrogation. Whatever had been gone over the night before had given the brass even more questions than they'd expected. They'd brought him back, and left again, presumably to follow up on some of the evidence that had been brought against Hunter since seizing the victims' belongings.

“Thanks,” Ward muttered to her back. “Anyway, though...”

Trip grinned. “Listen, just make sure you toe the line with this, okay? I don't want you to get suspended, or worse.” There was another meaningful look there, that dissolved into a smile. “I don't want them to pair me with Sitwell if you get kicked out.”

“Yeah, that would be real terrible for you, wouldn't it?” Ward asked, unlocking his phone and eying the text again.

“It would be,” Trip agreed, dropping into his seat. “I'm going to check and see if we've heard anything back from forensics on that stalker. You text back loverboy, and if we've heard anything, let's head down there and see if we can stop twiddling our thumbs on this.”

Their current case had to do with a stalker who was getting increasingly intrusive on the objects of his fascination. So much so that he'd broken into each of their homes, a different night for each, and left a polaroid of their sleeping form on their kitchen counter, with a single rose. As a precaution they'd requested that the police contact anyone who had an open complaint about a stalker and warn them to make sure their doors and windows were locked in the evenings. There was no pattern to the madness, and the guy was careful enough to be wearing gloves as he worked, but they'd found a pair of gloves discarded in a dumpster a mile from the latest victim's home that matched the fibers found hooked on the thorns of some of the roses. Hopefully some tissue or hair samples could be found in the gloves.

Their work was certainly not dull.

“Sounds good to me,” Grant answered, and then set to work on his phone, and this text conversation with Fitz. Their date was less than twenty-four hours from now. It would be nice if they could work all of this out before then, so they could both enjoy themselves at the zoo.

 

> _Yes._

 

That was simple enough. Maybe Fitz would have his phone on him.

Apparently, luck was on Ward's side. Only a few seconds after his message delivered, Fitz began to write a reply. It was only another few seconds before it came in.

 

> _I understand your work is probably really confidential. We're all just concerned about Lance._
> 
> _Is there anything you can tell me, so I can calm everyone's fear? (I'm really sorry, I'm kind of being put up to this, and I understand if you can't.)_

 

Well, it was a nice reassurance that Fitz understood the nature of his work, and that he couldn't just go throwing around case information haphazardly. If he was being put up to it, Ward was certain he had an idea of who was behind it. His neighbour, Skye, was a nice enough girl, but he knew that both she and Miles Lydon, the third occupant of their apartment, weren't exactly the least intrusive types.

 

> _I can't tell you much, and I'm not actually assigned to his case. I do know that there's some concern about his promotion._  
>  _Not able to say much else. Lance will know more than me, really._

 

He hoped that was enough, and not too glib. They had a right to be worried, and to be trying to find out whatever information they could, through whatever channels possible.

“These damn computers, man,” Trip complained. “You'd think they could afford to give us something that runs a little faster, given, you know, we work for the damn FBI.”

“Your government tax dollars at work,” Ward answered, smirking in response to Trip's flat stare. His phone buzzed again.

 

> _Thank you for telling me what you have, Ward. I really do appreciate you doing that.  
>  Suppose it doesn't help for me to say there's no way Lance could've done it?_

 

He snorted a quiet laugh, immediately typing his reply.

 

> _If those sort of things helped, no one would ever get caught for the crimes they committed._

 

Hopefully Fitz understood that was a rather dry, mostly unfunny joke. Maybe it wasn't right to joke right now, though Grant was _fairly_ sure that was what the other had been going for.

 

> _Damn! It was worth a shot, I guess!_

 

Oh, good. Ward let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding, sneaking a glance up at Trip's computer screen. The desktop was finished loading.

“You going to check your email any time soon, grandma?”

“Who you calling grandma, old man?” Trip shot back, swiveling his chair. “I'm pretty sure I saw a gray hair a few minutes ago, when the light was _juuust_ right.” He reached out towards Ward's head, laughing when his hand was knocked away. “Yeah, I think it'll only be another month before my email loads.”

“Oh, good,” Ward looked back down at his phone, noticing Fitz was typing again. “We're only going to be waiting another thirty days. What luck.”

 

> _Seems silly to ask, but we're still on for the zoo tomorrow, right?_

 

Why was that so endearing?

Why did the text on his phone screen, Fitz asking such a normal question, make him smile like a smitten teenager? Was it because, for the first time in a long time, he was actually potentially involved with someone who wasn't working out some federal agent kink they'd harboured since puberty? Or, also likely, was it because his 'crush' on Fitz was maybe a little bit more than just a 'crush', but something more of an infatuation, and Fitz's shared interest was riveting?

Whatever the case, Grant didn't bother lingering, and typed his reply quickly.

 

> _I'm still 100 percent in if you are. I have been looking forward to it all week. I mean, if you want to reschedule..._

 

It didn't take very long for Fitz's reply to come in, broken into two lines, the first obviously the more important of the two, sent on its own so as to emphasis its importance.

 

> _No._  
>  _I'm really looking forward to it, so you better not leave me waiting for you, Agent Ward._

 

“Lo and behold, we've got something to go on,” Trip announced, skimming the email in his inbox before sending it to the printer. “Let's grab that and head down. See what the team figured out.”

“Sounds good.” Grant got to his feet, waiting by the printer on the desk between theirs, as the pages printed. As they did, he tapped out one more reply.

 

> _I'll be there with bells on. Noon. How could I not take you to see monkeys? I'm really interested in seeing you 'lose your shit', as Darcy claims._

 

“Everything good in paradise?” Trip asked while he put his phone away and grabbed the warm papers from the printer. Ward nodded, flipping through the report they'd been sent. It definitely looked promising. They'd found tissue and hair samples that could be used to find a match for their ambitious stalker.

“Yep. He didn't pry.”

“That's a saving grace.” They made their way towards the door to the office, Ward trusting his peripheral vision to have him follow along with Trip as he flipped through the pages. “Sounds like you've found a winner. Someone like Raina, who isn't going to pry, and pry, and pry until you give up all the details of your very confidential government job.”

“Man, do _you_ even know what Raina does for a living?”

Trip snatched the papers out of his hands, grinning. “Sure do. And it's driving you crazy that I won't tell you, isn't it?”

Ward knew that the look he gave Trip was answer enough, and the other laughed as they stepped into the elevator.

The phone in his pocket buzzed once more, and Grant chanced checking it as the elevator descended.

 

> _Don't stand me up, and I promise I won't restrain myself when it comes to the monkeys._

 

Ward grinned, and sent back one quick, final message before they got down to work.

 

> _Deal._

 

 

 

 

It was normal to be nervous before a first date. That was just a given fact. It didn't matter if it was a blind date, or something with someone who you'd known for a long time. An actual _date_ had the power to make anyone nervous, and Leo Fitz wasn't immune to that. He'd known it long before Saturday, but that morning when he'd woken up with a stomach full of butterflies, the reminder had been sharp and not entirely welcome.

It was also probably partially brought on by everything that had been going on with Izzy and Victoria and Lance, that whole attempted murder mix-up. It had left all of them rather on edge for the last few days. It was hard to imagine a world in which Lance Hunter attempted to murder his boss – one of his oldest and dearest friends – and her partner, yet, that was the world the FBI was trying to potentially shed light on.

And Lance's ex was on the case.

That had just made things worse, Skye had said, the night before when she'd been there. She, Jemma and Fitz had all crowded together on their couch and attempted to get lost in a Ben Stiller comedy, but it wasn't long before Skye was asking, in a small voice, if they could talk about the craziness that was going on in their lives, because there was no talking about it at her apartment. It was like some gargantuan elephant in the room.

It was somewhere in that conversation that Skye had asked him to text Grant and see if there was anything that they could learn.

The fact was, and they all knew it, there was no way that Lance could have tried to kill Izzy and Tori. It didn't add up. He owed Izzy so much, and respected her so far, that the mere suggestion that he was the one behind the attack on the two of them felt near blasphemy. And it was fine that they could all sit there and say it, but, like Ward had said, many people could say that of their friends. If that worked to get people off the hook every time it was said, no crimes would ever be solved.

All they could do, really, was sit back and twiddle their thumbs and wait for the FBI to come to the same conclusion that they all had. Once the bureau had all the ducks in line, the picture would be clear, and whoever had actually made the attempt on those women's lives would be picked up and put behind bars. It was that simple.

Maybe that was putting a heavy amount of confidence and trust in federal law enforcement, but it had seemed to settle Skye's nerves last night. As for Jemma's and Leo's it had had much the same effect.

At least in regard to what was happening with Lance. In terms of his impending date? Leo's nerves were still under stress.

“Can you _please_ stop tapping your foot like that?”

Jemma, curled up on their couch with a medical text, looked somewhere between annoyance and pity. Annoyance, because for the last fifteen minutes or so, Fitz had been pacing, shuffling, tapping, drumming – anything to keep his body busy while he waited for it to be an appropriate time to go downstairs and wait for Grant. Pity, because she knew that the exact reason he had been engaging in all those motor movements was because of the fact that he was waiting to go downstairs and meet Grant.

“Sorry.” He muttered, quick, and turned over his phone, checking the time for the second time in the last minute. “Nervous.”

“You don't have to be so nervous, Fitz,” Jemma said, her voice taking on a soothing tone. “You two are going to have a wonderful day, and I really think he'd going to enjoy spending time with you. Just think,” she smiled, wide and hopeful. “You'll get to know each other better, and maybe schedule a second date. Then a third. Fourth. Before you know it you'll be calling him your boyfriend, and having a hard time remembering that once upon a time he was just a customer who came into the shop late at night.”

Fitz knew he was staring at her, but he couldn't stop, much like he couldn't stop the grin that slowly spread across his face with every word she was saying. “You're making this sound like some gay romantic comedy.”

Straightening the book on her lap with one hand while she twirled a green highlighter in the other, Jemma shrugged. “Nothing wrong with a good romantic comedy.”

Fitz snorted, and glanced at his phone, just as it went off with an incoming message.

 

 

 

 

> _Waiting downstairs for you._

 

 

The bundle of nerves that had been idly shuddering in his stomach tightened and then released, sending a rush of heat along his limbs, into the tips of his toes and fingers. This was it. Ward was downstairs, waiting for him in that gorgeous car, for their zoo date.

“Don't just sit there staring at your phone!” Jemma admonished, a laugh dancing over her tones. “Go! Have fun! I expect to hear all about it when you get home tonight!”

Fitz got up, shaking himself out and grabbing his keys as he headed out the door. “Wish me luck?”

“You don't need it, but, luck!”

Ward's car was just as nice on the inside as it was on the outside. That was Fitz's first impression when he climbed into the Charger. Probably because he was giving himself a second before he looked at Ward himself.

It still didn't seem entirely real. That had to be a side effect of the long pining period.

Once he did finally look at Ward though – after only a few seconds, even if it felt like minutes – he forgot all about the nice seats and the in-dash GPS and touchscreen radio, the pristine gearshift and the suspiciously clean foot-wells (Ward, he thought, must have gone to a car wash beforehand, because no car could be this clean). Ward himself looked different, outside the coffee shop, which Fitz had expected. Dressed in dark blue jeans and a gray henley, he made quite the picture. It occurred to Fitz that he could easily point out that, especially with the sleeves pushed up as they were, and the topmost buttons undone, Ward could give any working male model a run for their money. It also occurred to him that, maybe, in his own jeans, faded orange t-shirt, and red and navy plaid shirt, he was dressed down.

That right there was ridiculous thinking.

“Hi,” he greeted, smiling at Ward. The older man smiled back, friendly, but, maybe a little nervous, too.

“Hey,” he replied, waiting while Fitz got his seatbelt on. “How's it going?”

“Oh, not bad,” Fitz answered, settling into his seat. Ward put the car back in gear and headed back to the road. “Uneventful morning. That's always good. Yourself?”

“Pretty much the same,” Ward admitted, waiting to turn out of his building's lot. “I slept in today, that's a feat.”

“And what does sleeping in look like for FBI Agent Grant Ward?” Leo asked, grinning, so that when Ward looked over – and he did – he could see the jest and tease there.

“Nine in the morning, actually,” Ward answered with an answering grin. “I know, it's pretty slovenly of me to sleep that late.” The car moved out into traffic, smooth and quick, Ward maneuvering it easily around other vehicles, headed towards their destination. Fitz wouldn't admit to it out loud, but he was rather excited to be going on a date to the _zoo_ of all places. He hadn't been for a long time, and even though he would try to keep a firm grasp of his fascination with monkeys, it would be a good test of whether or not he and Ward had what it took to get to a second date.

Because if Ward couldn't handle him at full monkey freak out, Ward probably couldn't handle him, period.

“You're a lazy man, I see,” he joked back. Fitz shifted in his seat, getting comfortable. It was a long drive to the zoo, on a Saturday like this. “Nine in the morning? For shame.”

“It is shameful, isn't it?” Ward's voice was light, joking. Fitz loved it. This was so easy, so far. They were getting along all right. “I hope that doesn't change your mind about this whole date thing.”

“Oh, my mind is changed. I'm just waiting for the next stoplight to open this door and get the hell out of dodge.”

Ward snorted. “Literally.”

“Oh my god,” Fitz gaped at him from the passenger seat. Ward was trying his best not to smirk, he could see it. “That was terrible.”

“Well, I _do_ drive a Dodge,” he glanced over for a second, giving Fitz the full effect of his smirk, before looking at the road again. “You set me up, how could I ignore that?”

“With grace and no puns?” Leo suggested, but he was still grinning, still slipping more and more into total ease with Grant.

That was a good sign, he thought.

“What's the fun in that? If I hadn't then maybe the conversation would have died there.”

“And we would have sunk into awkward silence all the way to the zoo.”

“Exactly.”

“And then when people asked me how my date with FBI Hottie went, I'd have to tell them that he was supremely boring, and cold, and couldn't make conversation to save his life.” It felt a little daring to use Darcy's nickname for Ward. FBI Hottie. It wasn't off the mark, but it wasn't something that Fitz liked to repeat. Even with the air conditioning on in the car, he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. With his eyes on the road, he doubted Ward would catch it, but the fact remained he'd said the words.

“See,” Ward started. “I have a reputation to uphold.” He paused, waiting for a line of cars to pass before he turned left. “And I kind of, maybe, possibly, want to show you a good time.”

The last thought was quieter, a little less of a joking tone to it, and it made Leo feel warm in a way that was completely different from the blush that had associated itself with his use of the nickname.

Grant wanted him to enjoy himself. He was going out of his way, Leo thought, to make sure that he had a good time, and that today wasn't something he'd categorize as a write-off. That was sweet. The guy had a sweet side to him that was just lurking, waiting to be poked and prodded until it showed itself.

As Jemma would say, that was adorable.

And Fitz couldn't help but think that the rest of the day couldn't possibly be a write-off, if this was how things were starting.

The drive to the zoo, and the wait for parking, didn't take nearly as long as he had suspected it would. In part, that was probably because of the fact that the entire ride was filled with small talk. Things about their weeks – steering clear of anything that involved what was happening with Lance – or discussions of how long it had been since either of them had been to a zoo. Ward had expressed that he had probably still had braces the last time he'd set foot in one; Fitz had expressed that it had probably been less than two years since the last time he'd passed the gates for one. That had been met with a much longer, searching look, paired with a little smirk, from Ward, as they waited at the tolls to pay for parking.

“What?” Fitz asked, not bothering to hide his returning smile. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Grant's eyebrows lifted, giving his smirk more of an inquisitive look. “Just how crazy about monkeys are you, Leo Fitz? Less than two years? You're a braver man than I am if you chanced these crowds... Either that, or the words 'monkey obsession' weren't so far off the mark.”

Fitz sighed, the tail end of it turning into a self-deprecating laugh. “I _love_ monkeys. I don't know what started it, but when I was growing up, at some point...” He made a 'poof' gesture with his hands. “Monkeys. They're my favourite animal. They're just so fascinating, really. And adorable, but that's besides the point.” He looked over at Ward, who was still watching him from the driver's seat. His smirk had turned into more of a soft smile, and that look made Fitz's heart skip a beat.

It was a problem that they weren't even two hours into their date yet and he was ready to wistfully sigh over the other's smile.

It wasn't a problem that Fitz felt like addressing, though.

“You're adorable,” Ward said, plain, like he was stating a fact, before he turned back to drive the car up to the toll. He made small talk with the attendant and paid for the parking while Fitz processed what he'd said, only speaking to him again when they were pulling away to go park the car. “I didn't mean that in a bad way, sorry if it came off like I was teasing you. I just, mean...” Ward waved a hand in his direction, eyes scanning the lot for empty spaces. “You're... what, 27, 28?”

“27.” Fitz answered, a little tense that his age was coming up in conversation. He wasn't actually sure how old Ward was. Maybe his age would be a problem.

“Damn, good guess, me,” Ward muttered, before continuing. “And you're openly admitting to me, some _dude_ who works for the FBI, and drives this thing, that you're fascinated by _monkeys_ and you think they're adorable.” He pulled the car into a spot, and turned it off before facing Fitz and pushing up his sunglasses. “I mean, this is the first conversation we've had that went for more than five minutes, but what I'm getting so far is that you're really your own... _thing_.”

“Thing.”

“Person.” Ward corrected.

“Better.”

“And maybe adorable wasn't the right word. Refreshing? Cool?” Ward shook his head. “I swear, this isn't me trying to flatter you into bed or something. I'm not exactly...” He spun a finger in the air, like he was trying to snag the proper wording. “Social stuff? Not my forte. Fact is, I work with a lot of guys who are pretty similar. All come up the same, all with the same kind of moral code and same programming. Trip's unique. The guy is actually fun, he has a personality that the whole FBI thing just compliments, instead of embodying. People like him, like _you_?” He shrugged. “I find myself attracted to, more often than not.”

Fitz nodded, fascinated by a rambling Ward, in his own right. It was so odd to see him attempting to pull together the right words to get his point across. “Attracted to, like...?”

“Oh, like making friends, hanging out. Don't worry,” Ward gave him another grin, this one definitely caring a hint of a tease. “You don't have to compete with Trip for my attraction.”

Fitz felt the nerve bundle in his stomach do some sort of complicated rumba, and laughed. “Okay, see, _now_? I think you are trying to flatter me into bed.”

Ward laughed, undoing his seatbelt and opening his door. “Trust me, when I start flattering you into bed, you'll know it.”

“I'll be on the lookout, then,” Fitz shot back, getting out of the car and stretching his legs. “Shall we?”

As far as first date locations for two guys went, it turned out that the zoo had been a perfect choice. They'd bought their tickets and grabbed a map of the zoo, and by the time they'd stopped to grab churros and water at one of the highly over-priced stands, nearly three hours had already passed.

It hadn't been the fault of the animals, either. Sure, they were majestic, and amazing, and a whole slew of other adjectives, but what ended up eating up so much of their time had been the way they'd fallen into conversation. From one area to the next, they chatted while watching lions roam their enclosures and camels chew slowly, contemplating if their spit could reach the crowd from where they were standing. It had been an afternoon of not just enjoying each other's company, but learning more about each other.

Grant had expanded more on what he'd meant in the car; mainly that guys who worked in Violent Crimes didn't tend to admit they liked monkeys, and those were the kinds of guys that Grant was around more often than not. He'd never been the type to be attracted to just one gender, but he'd thought maybe he'd just settled on dating women. The last one he'd dated had, apparently, nearly ended badly for him. Then there had been Fitz, and the coffee shop, and Ward had realized that, no, that whole thing with who he was attracted to hadn't settled on women; it just hadn't settled on the guys at the FBI.

Fitz had expanded more on what he was doing, in terms of school. He'd explained his engineering program, the things he wanted to do once he was on the other side of the graduation cap. That had also included talking about Jemma, and how the two of them had become like some strange pair of siblings – who had some intimacy in their past, hence the emphasis on _strange_ – and how very important to him she was. Ward had listened through it all quietly, paying attention, and seeming to clue in to a few things, while also shaking his head and uttering a quiet 'that's impressive' when Fitz had finished explaining what he was pursuing in school. It felt good to have someone low key amazed at his genius, again. It had been so long that he'd been around Jemma, Skye, and the others, who knew he was brilliant when it came to engineering and the like, that he'd forgotten what it looked like to have someone look at you like you were one of the most impressive things they'd ever seen.

After churros came more wandering, and more chatting. Leo learned about Ward's want for a dog, something he hadn't had since childhood, and he, in turn, joked back that he'd always wanted a pet monkey. Ward's response to that had been a solemn look, and something to the effect of 'I have my FBI ID with me, we could snatch you one under the guise of national security', before he'd put his hands on Fitz's shoulders, and turned him to face the signpost at the crossroads next to the tiger compound.

There, in big letters, read the words 'MONKEY HOUSE', on a sign carved to point down the path to their right.

“Is it time?” Grant asked.

Leo turned his head, eyebrows raised, tone cool as he regarded the other man. “You think you're ready for this?”

“Been looking forward to it since you said you thought they were 'adorable'.” Ward shot back, tone equally as cool.

It was futile to hold back the grin that those words brought to Fitz's face. “Then I guess it's time.”

The monkey house wasn't too crowded, only a few families and their children were milling around in its hallways. It was a good thing, too, because, for as much as Fitz had told himself he was going to keep it together, once be was presented with actual monkeys, it became difficult not to be excited. His smile, he knew, was wide, and he barely even glanced at Grant before he was commenting on the monkeys. Their species, what they were doing, how old they might be. Pointing out that some were eating, some were playing. He caught Ward with two fingers pressed to his lips seconds after he'd blurted, “Look! That one's eating... something, do you think he likes it?” and reached over to punch his upper arm lightly.

“You're the one who brought me here,” he pointed out. “You're not allowed to laugh.”

“Who's laughing?” Ward asked. “I'm not laughing, I'm definitely not laughing. Not amused at all.”

They spent a while in the monkey house, and Ward didn't complain at all, even with Fitz checking every few minutes. He seemed, really, to be highly amused with everything that was happening in front of him, and Leo dared to think that just maybe he saw some fondness in those looks, too. By the time they were leaving the monkey house, it was approaching five o'clock, and his stomach was grumbling for some actual food.

“We definitely saved the best for last,” Grant commented, walking at his side as they followed the foot path back towards the entrance to the zoo. “That was a learning experience for me.”

“Oh, yes,” Fitz rolled his eyes. “You've witnessed how an engineering student from Scotland can lose his bloody mind over monkeys. I'm sure that was _very_ educational, Agent Ward.”

The other's answer was a hand slipping into Fitz's own, tentative, gentle, even while his tone was confident. “It was. Extremely.”

Fitz gripped the hand in his a little tighter, sure Ward would feel the trip of his pulse. “Happy to have been of service. Are we still on for dinner?”

“Well,” Grant started, looking at Fitz for the first time since taking his hand. “I did kind of promise that it would be part of the date...”

“You're sure spending almost five hours with me hasn't been too much?” Leo asked, pressing forward carefully. The way Grant had taken his hand had to mean that, no, it hadn't been too much, but he had to be sure.

“Nope,” Ward answered, without a second's hesitation, leading him towards the exit. “Let's get dinner.”

 

 

 

Dinner, it turned out, was exactly what they had joked about. They'd parked Ward's car not too far into downtown, and found the first hot dog stand they could, ordering their romantic dinner of jumbo dogs and cokes, something Ward insisted on paying for. It wasn't the easiest thing to juggle the hot dogs and their drink cans, but they managed, somehow, strolling around, and talking more.

Leo told Grant about his family – more specifically, his mother. What a nice woman she was, how much he looked up to her, how supportive she was. Grant told Leo about his family – more specifically, his mother and father, two brothers and sister. There was significantly less detail attached there than to what Leo had told him of his mother. What he understood was that both his parents and older brother were deep into politics. His youngest brother was studying to be a doctor. His sister was still in school.

“Massachusetts?”

“Massachusetts.” Ward confirmed, repeating the word with a grim smile.

“That's pretty far away from here.”

“It is,” he agreed. “That was deliberate. It's not that I don't love my family.” Fitz suspected there was a lot more love for some, than the others. “But they can be very difficult to deal with. It was easier to put the country between us than to keep pretending we were all getting along all right.”

Fitz nodded, tossing his hot dog napkin in a bin as they passed, and opening his coke. “So, that's your baggage.”

Ward laughed, quiet. “And yours is an unhealthy obsession with monkeys that borders on--” He didn't get to finish the sentence before Fitz was shoving him, lightly, but with enough force to make him stumble. It got a laugh out of both of them, Grant's much more genuine than the one that had preceded it. “I take it I deserved that?”

“Oh,” Fitz nodded. “You deserved it.”

By the time they made it back to Ward's car, - hand in hand, much to Fitz's undeniable glee – they'd gotten ice cream, and stopped in a children's toy store so that Ward could buy Fitz a small, stuffed monkey while the other silently fumed and tried to keep from smiling. It was tucked safely in a paper bag that swung from Fitz's arm as he climbed back into the car and buckled up. The readout on the car's clock said 8:30 PM. They'd spent more than eight hours in each other's company.

That was better than Fitz had hoped for.

They'd found some things that they butted heads on. Ward had made a comment about the techs in the FBI and they'd gotten into a little bit of an argument over how successful Ward would be at his job without those techs. Fitz had gone on for a little while about the finer points of Jemma's sandwich making skills, and caught Ward staring blankly at him, which had led to a whole other thing about how Fitz seemed to be elevating a sandwich to godly proportions.

All things considered, though?

It had been a very, very good first date. By the time they were pulling into the lot of the building where Leo lived, he was finding that the bundle of nerves had long ago disappeared, but now a ball of regret that the date was ending had managed to move in.

Again, as much of an uncomfortable feeling as it was, it had to be a good sign.

“So...” Grant asked, pulling up in front of his building. “Verdict? Good date? Bad date?”

“Good date,” Leo answered, barely letting Grant finish. “Absolutely a good date.”

That soft smile from before found its way onto Grant's face again, and he nodded. “That means we can do this again, sometime?”

Leo nodded back. “I'd like that.”

He was lingering, he knew. It was a first date, and people had expectations for those sorts of things. How to behave, when to hold hands, how to say goodnight. You weren't supposed to linger until at least the second date. That was when things worth lingering for generally became acceptable, by some outdated rule.

“I'll text you?” Grant asked. He'd put the car in park, and was sitting with one hand in his lap, and the other propped on the center console between them. At ease.

“That sounds good.” Leo nodded again. “I'll try not to ask anymore about confidential federal business.”

Grant's smile broke into a laugh, quiet and close, between them in the car. “Probably a good idea.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, still smiling. “I thought so.”

Still lingering.

There was an elephant in the car with them that had nothing to do with talking or not talking about Lance's predicament. Both of them knew it, but with each second that dragged on, it seemed more and more likely that it would stay there, in the car, and disappear once Ward drove away.

Lingering was for the second date.

“Well, thank you, so much. I had a really, really good day, Grant.” Fitz said after what felt like a good two minutes of silence between them, but couldn't have been more than thirty seconds. “I'll talk to you soon?”

“Yeah,” Ward confirmed. “It was a great day. Talk to you soon.”

Fitz gave him one more nod, and opened the car door, climbing out and shutting it.

Barely a second after his door closed, there was an echo of it from the other side of the car. Looking up, Fitz saw Ward coming around the car, shoulders squared like he'd made up his mind on something.

There was barely time for him to tip his head up, and quiet the rush in his ears, before Grant kissed him.

It was light, and sweet. Nothing too demanding, nothing asking for anything more than the chaste thing that it was, but it made Leo's stomach clench and twist, his mind rushing to memorize every detail.

When Grant pulled away, something was being pushed into Leo's hands.

“You almost forgot your monkey.” He murmured, still close enough that Fitz could feel the puff of his breath on his own lips.

“Good thing you remembered for me,” Fitz replied, meeting his eyes. This close, he could see the different shades that were spun through the brown, and the way each caught in the setting sun.

He leaned up, kissing Grant one more time, relishing in the quiet sigh the other let out when he settled back on his heels, and moved back towards the building's door.

“I'll text you.”

“You better.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance meets with Bobbi and Garrett. Skye and Jemma take a trip to IKEA to escape the doom and gloom.

Interrogations had never been Bobbi Morse's favourite part of her job, but they were definitely a part of her job that she couldn't ignore. Nor, really, did she actually hate them. There was something of a challenge to finding the holes in a person's story, to finding the trips and rips in their alibi, in finding the solid ground in the tale they told. Interrogations were far from her favourite, but she really didn't hate them.

Or hadn't, until Lance Hunter was seated across from her, for the third time in two days.

“Bob, you know me. You know I wouldn't do something like...” Lance waved his hands around, in increasingly annoyed, worked up circles. “What happened to Izzy. You know I couldn't do that.”

“You start off every interrogation like that.” Garrett noted, sitting down in the chair next to Bobbi on her side of the table. “I understand that you and Agent Morse have some history, but you cannot call on that to be your defense in this situation, Mr Hunter.” Garrett smiled. It was a thin, predatory thing. A smile that said he knew how things were going to go in this room – and he did, for the most part – and Lance would be better off to just follow along and stop petitioning Bobbi to remember that she 'knew him'. “Relying on something like that past relationship with Agent Morse to solidify your innocence is edging pretty close to being an admission of guilt.”

Lance blanched. “I'm not guilty. I wouldn't do that to Izzy. Or Tori.”

“Then the evidence will speak for itself and tell us that story.” Garrett answered, coolly. “But if you keep grasping at straws that one of the investigators 'knows you', you're not building a very solid case for yourself.” He actually stooped to doing air quotes as he spoke. It was condescending as all hell, Bobbi knew, but it was also Garrett's style. He was one of the best interrogators that the agency had, and that attitude was part of the reason why so many people cracked under him. Either he riled them up, or he broke them down.

“Fine,” Lance muttered. “It doesn't change the fact that Bobbi _knows me_.”

“I knew you, Lance,” Bobbi finally spoke up, the same line that she'd been relying on for the last day and a half. “We aren't together anymore, I can't say that I know you. And if we were together, and I did know you, I wouldn't be in this room right now, and you wouldn't have that crutch to lean on.” She shuffled the file in front of her, and then reached forward to tap the voice recorder on the table between them, reminding him of its presence. “Why don't we just get this over with?”

“I've told you, over and over, I didn't do it.” Lance said, enunciating the last three words slowly and clearly. “I have no reason to want to push Izzy in a damn pit!” He was raising his voice, which wasn't surprising. Some people, when they were agitated, got quiet and dangerous sounding. Lance Hunter was not one of those people. The louder he spoke, the more pissed off you could be guaranteed he was.

“Start at the beginning,” Bobbi said, ignoring what he'd said. Part of her hurt, having to do this. Having to shut him out and shut him down and demand he follow the steps. That part of her, though, was the part that he'd been trying to petition, and it was carefully locked away in the back of her mind. Now, they needed Lance to go over the night for them, once more. Three retellings of his story would be enough to hunt for discrepancies. Issues that might point to true guilt.

Because the situation didn't already make him look guilty enough...

Lance sat back in his seat, lips pursed. His eyes flicked from Bobbi, to Garrett, and back, and eventually the annoyance faded out of them, into resignation.

“All right, fine. I was out that night, with my roommate, Skye, and her friend – my friend, too, I guess – Jemma.”

“Last names?” Garrett asked.

“Poots and Simmons.” Lance answered. Garrett nodded, indicating that he was free to proceed with his story. “We were at a coffee shop that Jemma's roommate – Leo Fitz – works at. He was setting up a date that night, and I guess we thought it would be good fun to eavesdrop.”

This wasn't the first time that Bobbi had heard this information, but the first time she had heard it, she had reacted the same: not at all. At least, not outwardly. It was a bit of a tangled web that they were involved in, it seemed. Lance was friends with Leo Fitz, who was Grant's date, that barista he'd been pining over for some time. Funny how things worked out.

“After that, the girls went off to do whatever they did, and I swung by the site.”

This was the interesting part. It was also the part that had made Bobbi's stomach twist with the horrible realization that Lance could have had some involvement with what happened to Izzy and Tori. When they had first heard it from the night guards, she had gotten the all over bodily sensation that she was about to be sick. No one in the room had seemed to notice, but she hadn't been able to shake the idea that it had been all over her face. The last thing she wanted to do was believe that her ex had tried to murder mutual friends of theirs. The last thing she wanted to do was believe that he was capable of that kind of despicable act. Lance Hunter was a lot of things, but a murderer was not one of them.

At least, that was what Bobbi had thought until the guards' stories had lined up.

Now, she didn't know what to believe.

“And around what time was that exactly?” Garrett asked, leading Lance to continue.

“I don't know, mate.” Lance retorted, snap in his tones. “Shortly before midnight. I left the coffeeshop around 11:30? Doesn't take that long to drive to the site.” Garrett nodded, waving a hand in a very 'get on with it' manner, like he wasn't the one who had just interrupted their suspect. “Anyway, I figured I would go to the office on site, make sure that things were good for the morning. I mean, there were a couple of orders we had to send out in the morning for things that had been short-guessed, and we needed to send a copy of the contract and plans to the client's home in the morning, because he wanted a copy faxed. I figured I could go in, make sure all those things were lined up and ready to go.” Lance crossed his arm, defensive. “I was trying to make things easier for Izzy. I was being a good business partner.”

Bobbi cringed at that. Their investigation had found out unfortunate things about that, too.

“Yes, a good business partner,” Garrett repeated, folding his hands on the table in front of him and cocking an eyebrow. Bobbi had to hand it to him; the guy knew how to command an interrogation room. She may as well not be here. With May, first, and Coulson before that, the whole interrogation thing had been resting in both her hands and the other person's. With Garrett, he took the full weight of the interrogation, with respect to his partner, and made the best use of it. Bobbi was actually glad for his being there. It made it a lot easier to go through these motions with Lance. “We'll come back to that, Mr. Hunter. Now, what did you do once you were sure you were done 'being a good business partner'?” The air quotes made a resurgence, and Lance sneered at Garrett across the table before readjusting the cross of his arms.

“I left the site.” He answered, matter of fact. “You can ask that one guard, Mike. Big guy, grey handlebar mustache.”

“And what time was that, do you think?” Bobbi asked, voice level. Lance met her eyes, and for a second her chest hurt with the betrayal in his gaze.

“Around 12:30. I didn't get home until quarter after 1, so I'm going to guess around 12:30.”

“All right, Mr. Hunter.” Garrett started, Bobbi moved in her seat, getting comfortable, unconsciously mimicking the other agent's position, her hands folding on the table as they faced Lance. “So you'd guess that you stayed on site for about half an hour to forty minutes?”

Lance nodded.

“And you... did what, while you were there?”

“I signed and dated a few request forms, and order forms. Double checked them for accuracy. Copied everything twice and filed them appropriately, and scan-to-emailed each form to the company email.” This was the same answer that Lance had given them in the previous two interrogations. It boded well for him when he was saying, Bobbi was sure, word-for-word, what had occurred that night while he'd been in the office. “Gathered the copies of the contract and plans out of the trailer-office safe, double and triple checked that everything was in proper order, and set them next to the fax machine for the morning. Wrote a note reminding the opening crew that it needed to be faxed off to the client. Cleaned up a little. Locked up. Left.”

Garrett nodded again, drumming his fingers on the table once before speaking, blunt and to the point. “Mr. Hunter, how much is Hartley's Contracting worth? I mean, what's the income, per year, do you think?”

“Somewhere around a million.” Lance answered immediately. “Why?”

“And how much does Isabelle Hartley make in a year?”

“We don't discuss our salaries all that often.” Lance said, the bite back in his voice.

“How much does Isabelle Hartley make in a year?”

Lance stewed for a few seconds longer before answering, “About $100k, I think. I don't know, I don't really look at her pay stubs and add that all up.”

“And yourself?” Garrett continued, seemingly unfazed by Lance's snark.

“$70k last year.”

Garrett smiled. “Well, that's got to be a bit of a salary increase you're going to be enjoying, with that promotion of yours, don't you think?”

“Probably?” Lance said. “Listen, I don't know where this is all going, but what I make in a year had nothing to do with the idea that I could have pushed Izzy and Tori in that hole.”

“Oh, but, you see, Mr. Hunter.” Garrett said, drumming his fingers on the table again, before shifting through the files they had gathered on the table in front of them. “It might actually have a lot to do with the idea that you could have pushed Ms. Hartley and Ms. Hand into that hole. Because, as it turns out, these papers? The ones naming you as her official business partner, and stating that, should something happen to her, the business will pass to your control?” Garrett spun the topmost paper around so that Lance could read it properly. The only important part of those papers was at the bottoms, anyway. “They were all signed – by yourself and Ms. Hartley – two weeks before you're saying you were named partner.”

Lance's face, Bobbi thought, had gone a little paler. Could that be the manifestation of guilt? Knowing that he was caught with his pants down when it came to what he'd told them – and Mack and Idaho, and all his friends – in prior interrogations, and paling because of it? Bobbi didn't think it would be that easy, but, again, she had never seen Lance as the type for murder. If he had done it, maybe this was his manifestation of guilt. Not cold-blooded enough to hide the reaction. It may just be his downfall, if they could land concrete proof.

“Care to explain why this is the way it is?” Garrett asked. The FBI had their own concerns. Two weeks was more than enough time for Lance to have realized the monetary potential that having sole ownership of Hartley's Contracting had. Two weeks was more than enough time for him to come up with something as shoddy as pushing Izzy into a hole. Izzy and Tori were both still heavily sedated, but Izzy had given up one crucial piece of information.

The only person she had told of her rough plans to visit the site and maybe, possible propose to Tori, was Lance Hunter, over lunch, the day before.

“Izzy didn't want to announce it before everything was finalized. We signed the papers but she wanted the lawyers to finish doing their thing before we told the guys. She asked me not to brag about it to anyone until she was ready to make the announcement and make it unofficially official.” Lance explained. “I went along with it. It made sense. We didn't need to have some big announcement party where I signed the papers. We told the guys, we went out for lunch as a team, it was small and intimate, and that's the way we do things there. We're a family.” Lance looked a little worked up. “I wouldn't try to kill Izzy.”

The man seated at Bobbi's side hummed, low and thoughtful. He carefully put the papers back into the file folder, shutting it and tapping his index finger on the cover a few times, clearly thinking over his next words.

“Here's the situation, Mr. Hunter.” Garrett started. “You find out two weeks before Isabelle Hartley announces it, that she is going to make you her business partner. The papers are all signed and dated, naming you the heir to this particular contracting throne, should anything happen to Ms. Hartley. Two weeks later, over lunch, Ms. Hartley tells you of her tentative plans to propose to her long-term partner, Victoria Hand, the following night, potentially at one of the sites for one of the company's current projects. That night, you have an alibi for your location up to approximately 11:50PM. The night guards can attest to you arriving at the site around that time. You claim that you did some paperwork and filing, just 'being a good business partner', for around thirty to forty minutes, and then left the site at around 12:30AM. The night guards can attest to this being the truth.”

Garrett laced his fingers, setting his hands on top of the file folders. “At 12:20AM, Isabelle Hartley and Victoria Hand are pushing into the open pit, by an unseen assailant.”

Lance was frowning, but the colour still hadn't returned to his face. His eyes flicked to Bobbi's, but he found no solace there. She schooled her face into remaining as a mask. She could not let anything but her business face show while Garrett laid the situation out in front of their suspect.

“I imagine you can see how this looks.” Garrett finished. He sounded almost friendly, like a teacher who catches a student doodling during their math lesson, rather than a FBI agent catching a suspect in a potential jam.

“Yeah, mate, I can.” Lance said, waving a hand through the air. “But _I didn't do it_.”

Garrett looked over at Bobbi, eyebrows raised. She raised one of her own, understanding his question, and nodding once.

“Mr. Hunter.” He said, turning back to face Lance across the table. “I would advise you not leave the city.”

 

 

 

“You know, if we stay here, like this, maybe, just maybe,” Skye drew the last word out, far longer than its five letters should have allowed, and Jemma laughed, nudging her in the side. That small nudge seemed to break her out of her long, drawn out enunciation and Skye continued. “We can pretend that everything is just as normal as it was a week ago.”

“Was it ever really normal, though?” Jemma asked, her tone still carrying a hint of her previous laugh, even if the weight of the world had come crashing back when Skye had finished her thought.

The day had been resigned to a write-off. At least, for the two of them. It was a Sunday, and Sundays generally meant that it was time to relax. It was hard for Skye to actually relax, though, with Lance passing around their apartment. He hadn't been still or calm for the last few days, and that was understandable. He was being looked into as the person behind the attack on Izzy and Tori. As much as Jemma didn't believe he could have done it, she also had to admit that the evidence that he had said they had against him wasn't exactly full of holes.

Sure, there was the chance that he hadn't been involved in what had happened. That was definitely possible. It may just have been a case of being in the – very – wrong place at the – very – wrong time. Skye had relayed what Lance had told her when he'd gotten home the night before over the phone this morning, and then asked if Jemma could please, _please_ spend the day out with her, doing literally anything. Apparently, Lance wasn't being exactly charitable, and Miles, as a 'typical guy' in her words, wasn't helping in any way, space or form, to get their other roommate's mind off of the fact that he was a suspect in an attempted murder.

Not that Skye blamed Lance for being snappy, moody and melancholy. Not at all.

But, Jemma imagined, it had to be hard to be around that kind of attitude for prolonged periods. And from what Skye had told her, Lance was holed up in his room, letting his bad mood seep under the door and infect the entire apartment.

She had needed to get out.

And, she had added, she wanted the juicy details on Fitz's date the night before, and she knew that Jemma had them.

Given that Fitz had come back into the apartment the night before with a goofy smile on, and the evidence of Too Much Sun on his cheeks and nose, it was absolutely a given that Jemma had all the juicy details. She wouldn't have let Fitz get far in any case, without spilling the beans, but that goofy smile had made it dire that she keep him in the living room and get the rundown of his, apparently, successful date.

Somehow, that plan of theirs, to spend the day out on the town, had ended with this. The two of them trying out different beds in the Burbank IKEA, while families and couples milled around them, picking out decently priced flatpack furniture. The latest bed was Jemma's personal favourite, an, she suspected, Skye, since they had been laying on it for the last ten minutes, their ankles hanging off the mattress at either side.

“I guess _not_ ,” Skye agreed, in answer to Jemma's wondering if their lives had ever been normal. “I mean, I think they were more normal than some people's, but they just started to get really weird this week.” The other girl sat up, reaching back to smooth out her ponytail. “Attempted murders, murder investigations, suspect interrogations, and Fitz kissed a hunky FBI agent who happens to be my across the hall neighbour who occasionally has Lance ex, the FBI agent investigating him, over the beer and pizza.” Jemma smiled slightly when Skye looked back at her, over her shoulder. “I mean, that's _pretty weird_ , right?”

Sitting up, she had to agree. “It's weird. A really tangled web of events. What were the chances that the investigating agent would be Lance's ex, or that Fitz's crush happens to be your coffee-addict neighbour.” A couple was standing at the end of the bed, now, doing their hardest to look at the furniture without looking at the two women sitting on it. It was somewhat fascinating to watch, but Jemma took it as their cue to move on, and motioned for Skye to follow her as she left the makeshift bedroom display. “It's like we're living in a soap opera.”

“If this was a soap, Ward would actually be Fitz's long lost brother, and one of us would have amnesia.” Skye pointed out.

Jemma laughed. “Fair.”

It was nice to get out with her again. It had been so long, it felt, since it had been just the two of them, spending the day together. Just them, without another friend tagging along, or the whole group being there. It was nice, and especially after what had happened the night that Fitz had interrupted them.

Jemma had been trying not to dwell on that.

Skye was her friend – her best friend, next to Fitz – and it wasn't fair to the other that Jemma harboured a crush on her. Skye was, sure, as fluid as they came, it seemed, when it came to her sexuality, but he definitely seemed to prefer men. Men with a rough background, to be particular about it. It was hard to go on the fact that Skye could have fallen for her.

There was a rule about falling for your best friend, wasn't there?

Still, there had been those kisses. The ones that her dreams were reminding her of, once every couple of nights. It was getting exhausting, and part of Jemma just wanted to ask about it. The other parts, of course, were strongly against it. What if asking about it drove Skye away? That wasn't something she was prepared to experience. Not that she thought it would happen, but it was always good to be prepared for the worst case scenario, was it not?

Jemma was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice that someone was barreling through the crowd, against the flow of traffic, with a stroller that meant serious business, until it was bearing down on her. The mother didn't even seem to care that she was running over people's feet with the thing, only that the crowd parted, one way or another, to let her through. Two seconds more and Jemma would have been one of the unfortunates, if it weren't for Skye's arm looping around her waist and tugging her over.

The two of them quick stepped out the other side of the mill of human bodies, ending up with Jemma standing with her back against the counter-island in a kitchen display, Skye pressed up against her front as she regained her footing and balance. She had tugged Jemma over with a little more force than was necessary, but she'd saved her from a bumped shin and run-over toes, so that was something.

“My hero,” Jemma said, quiet between them, grinning at Skye, who grinned back.

“Well, of course,” Skye rolled her eyes. “I wasn't about to let you get taken down by Mamma Bear, there.”

“My toes and I greatly appreciate it.” replied Jemma, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. Skye grinned, seemingly trying to put on the suave hero face.

“Generally, the hero is thanked with a kiss.” She winked. “At least, that's how it goes in the fairytales.”

Jemma ignored the swoop in her belly. This was just Skye joking around.

“This isn't a fairytale,” she pointed out, effecting a coy grin. “This is an IKEA.”

Skye's suave smile didn't slip at all. “IKEA, which is Swedish, which is European, which is where so many of those cheesy fairytales come from.”

Jemma laughed. It was hard to keep her cover up. Skye was still so close, keeping her backed up against the counter, and one of her hands was propped on the counter next to Jemma's hip. And Skye was smiling at her, radiant (or was that Jemma's crush talking?), asking where her hero's kiss was. It was enough to make a girl's head spin, really. “You're trying _very_ hard to get that kiss.”

“Please?” Skye asked, drawing the word out the same way she'd drawn out 'maybe' earlier. Turning her head, she pointed to her cheek, tapping it twice. “C'mon, right here, lay it on me.”

Well...

If Skye was being so insistent, who was Jemma to refuse?

Reaching up, she laid one hand against Skye's opposite cheek, and used the other to cup the back of her head, keeping the other still while she leaned up, and pressed a small kiss to Skye's cheek, lingering just a second, before chancing one more, and then letting go.

Skye grinned at her, clearly oblivious to the people that were moving around them, some shooting them questioning looks. “Now I really feel like a hero.”

“Because you are one,” Jemma agreed. Her eyes stayed firmly on Skye's, as much as she wanted to glance down at her mouth, and ask if, maybe, there could be a proper fairytale kiss today. That seemed a little too daring to ask at an IKEA kitchen display.

“And you're my damsel,” Skye agreed, reaching down and taking Jemma's hand, before tugging her back into the fray.

Just like that, the moment was changed. Not over, but changed. From being inside their own bubble against that counter, they were pulling into some strange variation of something 'their own', Skye's hand warm and strong in Jemma's.

“Let's grab some meatballs and then find something else to do,” Skye said, looking over her shoulder at the other. “Sound good?”

Jemma smiled back. “Sounds great.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz joins Ward on a double date, Skye and Jemma have their own date, and Lance makes a phone call he knows he shouldn't make.

“I feel like I should be warning you.”

Fitz frowned, looking across the car at Ward, one eyebrow raised. The other looked over at him for a split second, a smile on his lips. That was good, despite his words. Maybe Grant was _trying_ to freak him out; because he wasn't freaked out enough already.

Lance was basically under surveillance by the FBI, without the actual surveillance part. Fitz had heard from Jemma who had heard from Skye that Lance said some 'jovial uncle' type had told him he didn't want to leave town. That didn't sound good, not at all. Fitz still firmly believed that there was no way that Lance could have done it, but at the same time, he didn't know how the FBI could make a mistake so huge as to accuse the wrong man of the attempt on Izzy and Victoria's lives.

Then again, not that Fitz would tell Grant, but there was the fact that law enforcement was not infalliable. They could make mistakes, and maybe they had made a big one when it came to Lance and this whole investigation.

In the midst of one of his friends being put under investigation by the Bureau, Fitz had felt that, maybe, he should stop seeing Ward. It wasn't exactly the nicest feeling in the world. After pining after the guy as long as he had, it felt like having ice cream taken away before he'd really gotten to enjoy it. Two dates (the second had been a particularly nice dinner for two), and a couple of late nights spent at the shop together didn't feel like enough to Fitz, but there was his loyalty to Lance to consider.

Of course, when he brought it up with the other, Lance had firmly told him 'no', that he wasn't going to let Fitz sacrifice his budding relationship just because Big Brother was trying to pin the attack on him.

It still felt weird though, at times, between him and Grant. Probably because of the fact that Ward was working in the unit that was watching Lance, and neither of them wanted to say a thing about it; maybe if they didn't talk about it, it would go away and stop lingering between them like thick fog on a spring morning.

And now...

“Why, exactly, should you be warning me?” Fitz ventured, a bit wary.

It was understandable.

They were going out for dinner with Grant's partner, Antoine Triplett, and his girlfriend. Fitz thought Grant had said her name was Raina. Not that there was anything particularly intimidating about Trip. He was always nice when he came into the shop, and Grant spoke highly of him. It was more the idea of sitting at a table with two FBI agents, while Lance was being investigated, that was intimidating. Fitz didn't think that Grant would try to leverage him for information, but he'd also seen way too many movies where that tended to be the outcome.

“Raina is...” Grant paused, long fingers flicking on his turn signal while he looked for the right word. “Different. She's got a big personality and it can be kind of a lot to handle at first.”

Fitz refrained from sighing in relief. That was it?

“I think I can handle her.” Fitz said, with a small, confident smile. “I met her once before, actually.”

“You did?”

Fitz nodded, even though he knew that Grant was focused on the road and wouldn't see it. “Yeah. A bit ago, she came into the shop with Trip. She actually referred to me as the one you liked.” He grinned, a little shy, teeth pressed against his lower lip, and glanced over at Grant, just in time to catch the other sending a look his way. He looked caught. “You look guilty.” Fitz commented. “See, I'd thought for so long I was just crushing on you, and you just thought of me as a friendly barista.”

“I did, at first,” Ward admitted. “But then you... turned on the charm, or something. And I was seeing you every day. And you're pretty cute.”

Fitz leaned back in his seat, watching the lights go by outside. “High praise. And you gossiped about me with Trip.”

“It wasn't _gossip_ ,” Grant said, a defensive edge in his voice that made Fitz grin over at him again. “It was... guy talk.”

“Well, your 'guy talk' got back to Raina,” Fitz said, matter of factly. “So, I guess, even if she's a lot to handle, you owe her thanks, because I wouldn't have made a move without what she said.”

“You wouldn't have?”

They turned into the lot for the restaurant where they were meeting the other couple, and Fitz shrugged. “Well, I might have. Eventually. It was kind of the push I need--” He frowned at Ward while he parked. “Nevermind _me_ not making the first move, you're a FBI agent. Shouldn't you be fearless and totally able to handle asking the local barista out for drinks?”

Ward smirked, casting around like he was looking for an excuse. “Uhhhh. No comment?”

Fitz snorted, opening his door and climbing out of the car. “You're a federal agent, not a politician. I don't think you get to play that card.”

“I carry the badge, so I can play whatever card I want.” Grant closed the door on his side, and stopped to wait by the end of the car. He was dressed in a suit, which, Fitz presumed, was par for the course with his being a federal agent and all, but the sight of it made him a little light in the head. Grant had dressed up specifically for him in a grey suit with a black dress shirt underneath. No tie, first few buttons open. He looked _really_ good. Next to him, in his own black slacks, white dress shirt, tie and grey sweater, Fitz felt a little underdressed.

Not that he minded much, because Ward was giving him a barely hidden appraisal right that second.

“Seems like an abuse of power,” he pointed out, pausing before reaching for Grant's hand. The other didn't miss a beat, taking it and tugging him towards the restaurant doors. Just outside of them stood two figures; a tall, dark man in a trendy looking off-green suit and white dress shirt, and short woman in a white dress covered in white lace. Trip and Raina.

“Not if you look at it from the right angle,” Ward argued back, before raising his other hand in greeting. “Hey! Nice to see you, Raina.”

The woman smiled, that same all-knowing smile she'd had the night she had come into the shop with Trip. “Nice to see you, too, Grant.” She turned her smile on Fitz, and held out a hand. “And you, too, Fitz,” she added.

He took her hand, shaking it in greeting, trying not to let her all-knowing gaze get into all his secrets. Now he understood what Grant had meant. “Nice to really meet you.” He said with a nod, then turned to Trip, who was grinning at him broadly. “Good to see you, Trip.”

The taller man scoffed at his outstretched hand, tugging Fitz into a tight, one-armed hug. “C'mon, man. You're dating my partner now. No handshakes between us.”

“I apologise for him,” Raina said, that smile still in place. It was a little eerie. “He's friendly.”

“Oh, I know,” Fitz said, patting Trip on the back before he was let go. Grant reached around Raina, tugging open the door for them. “I've known him almost as long as Grant.”

“Yeah,” Trip said, waving Raina and Fitz inside. “I was the one who actually spoke to him, and didn't just oogle him from the other side of the counter.”

Fitz caught Grant's eye roll, but the other didn't say anything. The host led them to a table by a broad window, waiting while they were all seated before making a promise to bring water, and give them a chance to peruse the menu. Fitz settled into his chair nicely, seated next to Grant and across from Trip. So far, it wasn't too much of a hardship to deal with the woman. She did have an intimidating air, but she seemed rather friendly. Plus, if Trip liked her, she couldn't be that scary.

Raina ordered them a bottle of wine, and Trip made a few suggestions for appetizers, and before long, the four of them were plunged deep into discussion about Fitz's degree, previous places Raina had worn her dress, Grant's attention to detail when it came to his hair, and exactly how Trip and Raina had met. By the time they were being handed dessert menus, Fitz's face hurt from smiling, and he had a pleasantly warm buzz drifting through his system. Between the wine, the food, and the good company, the night had turned out to be a rousing success, in his eyes.

“So, what are your plans for the rest of the night?” Trip asked, leaning forward on his elbows across the table. “Please tell me this joker's treating you right.”

“Hey!” Grant cut in. “I'm right here.”

“You were meant to hear it,” Raina chimed in, her voice as soft as her smile. “Grant isn't exactly a regular dating man,” she explained to Fitz, ignoring the look Grant gave her. “So, Antoine and I feel like it's our duty to make sure that he's being a gentleman.”

“He's been nothing but,” Fitz said, reaching over to pat Grant's arm. The other man met his eyes, and smiled, and the warm feeling drifting around through Fitz's veins increased pleasantly. “Honestly, I'm really happy.”

For the moment, it felt like anything that could have caused tension between them evaporated. There was no concern about Lance, no concern about what either of them knew in connection with that case. There was just the two of them, and the smile they were sharing, and Fitz's honest statement that he was really happy. It felt good. It felt like something Fitz hadn't imagined he would have with the agent any time in the near future when, a month ago, he'd barely been able to hold up a conversation with the guy.

“Me too,” Grant said back. Fitz wondered if it was loud enough for the other two to have heard, or if the admission was something that was going to be staying between them. He was fine with either option, really. Just knowing that Grant felt the same was a really nice feeling.

“Well, then, it would be good for both of you to keep up the good work,” Raina commented, lifting her glass to finish her wine. “That being said...”

“It's getting a little late.” Trip added in for her. Fitz glanced at his phone, finally noticing the time. They'd been at the restaurant, chatting, eating, and getting to know each other, for almost three hours. The time had flown; whatever nerves he'd been having before they'd sat down at the table, they were long gone. Sure, he wasn't exactly positive that he was a fan of Raina's all-knowing smile, yet, and he had no idea what she did for a living – something he suspected Grant didn't know either – but all in all, he'd had a really good time.

“We should be getting going.” He agreed, looking at Ward. The other nodded. The bill had been paid a while ago, by the two FBI agents, and they'd all sat around talking for a while longer. It was easy to throw on their jackets and head out to the parking lot without much of a wait.

“Well, I'd say that was a damn good night out,” Trip said, as they walked towards their cars. “It was nice to get to know you, outside of the apron, Fitz.”

“It was nice for me to spend time with you all outside of the apron,” he quipped back. Trip laughed, tugging him into another hug, before doing the same with Grant. Grant leaned down to hug Raina, and then she turned to Fitz, giving him the same. It was different from their initial handshake. Fitz figured he liked it.

“It was good to meet you,” she said, waving at she and Trip headed for his car. “I think we should do this again.”

“Definitely!” Fitz called after her. She and Trip nodded, Trip with a little salute and wave, and Grant tapped his key fob, the doors to the Charger unlocking. “The night's over already?” Fitz asked, climbing in.

Grant didn't answer right away, doing up his seatbelt and starting the car. He was pulling out of the spot before he spoke again. “It doesn't have to be...”

Fitz felt a little thrill shoot down his spine. “Jemma isn't home tonight.” He muttered, barely loud enough to be heard. He wasn't sure if Grant was hinting towards what he was hinting towards, but the wine in his system was telling him that he could probably be really on board with that idea, if that's where the other was headed.

Grant laughed, turning on to the street and heading back the way they'd came, back towards Fitz's apartment. “So, you have the place to yourself?” He asked.

“Mhmm.”

“Tomorrow's Saturday. I don't have to be at the office.”

“And I don't work until the afternoon.”

Grant glanced over at him, and Fitz wondered if the look he saw really was the other weighing the pros and cons of staying the night.

They drove in silence from there. Fitz didn't dare push the issue. He wanted to know what was going on in Grant's head, what he was thinking, but he didn't want to scare the other off. Anything else aside, it would be really nice to curl up next to Grant in his bed, and maybe wake up next to the other. It would fulfill some of his more tame dreams involving the other.

If he wasn't careful, he was going to become rather _obvious_.

They were turning on to Fitz's street when Grant finally spoke up. “You guys have overnight visitor's parking, right?”

“Yes,” Fitz answered, maybe too eager. “Around the back of the building.”

Grant turned the car into his lot, following Fitz's directions to the rear. He parked the car, smooth and easy, and shut it off. The silence in the car was heavy, charged with a discussion they needed to have before they got out of it. Fitz was relieved when Grant was the one to break it with a quiet, “Leo?”

The sound of his first name rolling off Grant's tongue probably shouldn't have had him suppressing a shiver. How much wine had he had?

“Mm?” he asked, turning to face the other. In the lights in the lot, he could just barely see Grant's face. God, he was attractive. Which deity had Fitz pleased to get this lucky?

“Do you mind if I spend the night?” The curve of his mouth in the light was amused. Fitz wondered if it was because of what they might get up to, or because of the dopey grin he was wearing, himself.

“Not at all. Please. Come up.” Fitz undid his seatbelt, getting out of the car and heading around it to meet Grant at his. Without hesitation, he slipped his hand into the other man's tugging him towards the building. Grant laughed.

“You're eager. And a bit drunk.”

“Only a little.” Fitz said, opening the door and holding it aside for Grant to pass through. The headed to the elevator, waiting in silence again while it came down to meet them. Once the doors closed, though, Fitz looked up at Ward, leaning into his side just slightly. His head did feel a little fuzzy. Still pleasantly so, but Ward was right. He was probably a little bit drunk. “I'm really glad you asked to stay.”

Ward smiled. “I'm glad you're glad,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss Fitz. It was gentle, and chaste, but Fitz hummed, tightening his fingers around the other's forearm, swaying forward a little on his toes when the other pulled away. Ward grinned. “You look... really dopey.”

“Yeah? Well... So do you.” Fitz shot back as the elevator stopped, letting them off on his floor. He led the way towards his apartment, frowning just a little. “All right, maybe you're right.” He said. The door unlocked easily, and he pushed it open, letting Ward follow him inside. “Maybe I'm a wee bit drunk.”

“A wee bit drunk,” Grant repeated. “And looking a little tired. The wine really laid into you, huh?”

Fitz locked the apartment door, kicking off his shoes and tossing his keys on the table before heading towards his room. “It was good wine.” He could hear Ward following him, and he mentally hoped he hadn't left too much of a mess in his bedroom. Flicking on the light, he was greeted by a bed that was only minorly mussed, and a floor that was only home to two shirts and a pair of jeans. It could have been a lot worse. “... My bed looks really comfortable right now.”

Grant's hands slid up his arms, from his elbows to his shoulder, squeezing lightly, and he pressed a kiss to his temple. “How about we get changed and crash?” he suggested. “You seem beat, and I could sleep.” Fitz glanced over his shoulder, nodding. “Plus, I'm kind of curious to see if you're a blanket hog, or an octopus.”

“Octopus,” Fitz answered, stepping away and reaching down to pull off his sweater. “Definitely.”

It turned out changing, for Fitz, meant an old baggy t-shirt and his boxers, but for Grant, who hadn't planned to stay the night...

“I don't mind if you stay like that.” Fitz said, honestly, sitting on the edge of his bed, looking Grant up and down openly. The other had stripped down to his boxers, and boxers only, and was actually standing there, asking if it was okay.

Fitz was of the opinion it was more than okay. He had suspected the other would be well built, given his profession, but confronted with the real deal, he was finding it hard to keep his gaze from roaming.

“You're sure?” Ward asked. “I might have a spare t-shirt in the trunk of my car.”

“No, please,” Fitz cut across, loving the smirk that came to Ward's face when he did. “This is good. Come on.” He settled back on the bed, lifting the covers and pushing them back to make room for both of them to slide under. “You can leave your clothes on my dresser. And get the light, please.”

Grant did as he was told, setting his folded shirt and pants on the dresser, laying his suit jacket on top of them, before he turned off the light and made his way to the bed. He had a good sense of where things were in the room, considering he'd never been there before. The bed dipped under his weight and he settled in, pulling the covers up before rolling on his side, facing Fitz. His hand found the other's, fingers twining, and Fitz sighed.

“This is really nice,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep.

“It is.” Ward agreed, shifting a bit. Fitz did the same, tentatively tucking himself closer to Grant, smiling when he pulled him in against his chest. Grant was warm, and, frankly, cuddling up against him under the covers, their legs tangled to accommodate their closeness, felt _really_ good. “Get some sleep, Leo.”

Fitz tapped his fingers on Ward's bare chest, readjusting once more before settling, comfortable. “You too, Grant.”

 

 

 

“So, the working theory is that he is _not_ going home tonight.” Jemma said, with a little bit of a wry smile, tossing her phone down on the couch. Maybe it was all the wine in her system – and why were they drinking like suburban mothers in the first place? - but that little smile made Skye's stomach do some kind of complicated gymnastics that both communicated that she was oh-so-screwed when it came to her crush on her best friend, but also managed not to have her running for the bathroom. Really, it was pretty impressive, but she didn't take the time to comment on that. That would make things weird.

Instead, she grinned back, and shrugged.

“Guess Fitz is getting laid tonight.”

Jemma flapped her hands, screwing her eyes shut, clearly trying not to laugh. “He's going to be insufferable.”

“Aww, come on,” Skye reached up from her spot on the couch, grabbing Jemma's wrist to tug her back down. The bowl of popcorn that the other girl had been getting for them from the kitchen sprayed pieces of popcorn over both of them as she fell into the seat. Skye picked one up, pinging it off Jemma's forehead with a laugh. “He's pined long enough, and they seem happy together.” She shifted in her seat, tucking her leg up under herself, and looking back to the television screen. Regina George's face stared back. Typical sleepover night movie choice, Mean Girls, but it worked. The two of them had watched it so much – with each other – that it sort of faded into background noise when they were together.

“True.” Jemma shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth, continuing to talk around it. Skye snorted. The only time Jemma Simmons was improper enough to speak with her mouth that full was when there was alcohol involved. “Not as happy as us, though.”

Skye frowned, raising her eyebrows in question. She was doing a good job at biting her tongue and not asking if Jemma meant what it sounded like she meant.

“I mean, popcorn, chocolate,” Jemma gestured at the various snack foods around them, not to mention the few empty pop cans, and the wine bottle on the coffee table. “Wine. We are clearly having a much happier time.”

Skye laughed. “I think you're a little bit more tipsy than you thought, Jem.”

The other's answer was a shake of her head and a waggle of her finger. “No. I'm just really happy, and pleasantly buzzed.”

“Ah,” Skye leaned back on the couch, getting engrossed in the movie again. If Fitz didn't go home tonight, and thereby _didn't_ call Jemma with the details of his double date, first, all the more power to him, but second, Skye was a little grateful, because it meant there was little to interrupt their night together. The flip-flopping about whether or not to discuss her crush on her best friend had been on her mind a lot, and especially tonight, probably prompted by the wine, it was holding on, harder than she expected it to. There were little things that had happened over the last few weeks that made Skye wonder if, maybe, she wasn't alone in all this. Maybe Jemma had feelings for her, too. On the other hand, it could just be some weird British aversion to letting people have their personal space and not treating your best friends like they're more than that, but Skye was sure that all the stereotypes about the British went the other way. Not so much touchy-feely, not so much cuddly-snuggles. Not so much planting kisses on their best friends in IKEA with only a little needling.

But, it was _really_ close to Europe, and the Europeans sure had a predilection for that kissing greeting thing.

Didn't they?

Regardless, Skye was spending more and more time, nowadays, on the 'Tell Her' side of the flip-flopping, and that was making her a little antsy. Restless, almost. Part of her just wanted to tell Jemma so that it was out in the open and they could deal with it, however they both felt right. Another part of her? Didn't want to say anything just in case Jemma didn't reciprocate and suddenly everything got weird and broken and sad between them. She didn't want that, and while Skye was pretty sure that their friendship was strong enough to withstand that kind of thing, that part of her that feared it was rather strong when it came to the whole tell-her-don't-tell-her tug-of-war going on inside her mind.

Jemma shifted in her seat, leaning, and then cuddling, into Skye's side. Skye shifted her arm, wrapping it around her shoulders, rubbing her hand up and down Jemma's upper arm briefly. When she stopped, Jemma hummed and shifted again.

“That feels nice.” She said, quiet, Skye feeling it more than hearing it. She smiled, repeating the motion, and looking down at her.

“Are you starting to crash from the wine?”

Jemma looked up, making a face that made her nose scrunch up. “Absolutely not. I'm just very comfortable, and that felt nice.”

Skye tapped her nose, watching it unscrunch immediately, as Jemma fell into a yawn. “Yeah, okay. You're _not_ tired.” She picked up her phone, glancing at the time. “It's almost three in the morning. You know you're allowed to be tired.”

“Three?” Jemma repeated, lifting her head a bit to catch sight of Skye's phone, too. “Oh. I didn't think it was that late.” She frowned, and then said in a voice that seemed faraway, like she was speaking to only herself, “I guess we really do have the apartment to ourselves tonight, then...”

Skye tried to ignore the little thrill that sentence gave her, but it was doubly hard when Jemma looked up at her again, and chewed her lower lip. If that wasn't meant to be flirting, then Skye wasn't near sober enough to be around Jemma.

“Can we try something?” Jemma asked.

Skye didn't hesitate before answering, her heart feeling like it was ready to pound out of her chest with wonder and suspicion. “Yes.”

Jemma moved, pulling away from Skye, but turning to face her on the couch, tucking one leg up on the cushion between them. She reached up with both hands, tucking her hair behind her ears with her eyes closed, taking a slow breath. Skye was holding hers, but she'd moved to face Jemma, too.

If this was what she hoped it was...

Jemma smiled, opening her eyes, and it looked small, and nervous, but determined. It was the last image in Skye's mind before those fingers touched either side of her face, and Jemma leaned in slow, eyes closing again, and kissed her.

It was everything she had hoped, and nothing she had banked on that night when she'd shown up at the apartment, and she was too scared to react at first. Too frightened that, if she moved, Jemma was going to fade away, and this would all be some annoying wine dream.

Her fear faded fast, though, and she put her hands on Jemma's knees, leaning into the kiss herself. Getting lost in the soft, pliant press of Jemma's mouth against hers, and the cool feeling of her fingers against Skye's skin.

After what seemed like forever, and not long enough, Jemma pulled away, opening her eyes, and meeting Skye's.

Neither of them said a word.

What were they supposed to say?

'Good job'? 'Nice work'? 'You really got a good kiss game going on there'? None of that seemed exactly right, but anything that should wasn't making itself known to Skye's hope-addled mind. Jemma had kissed her, and clearly seemed happy about it, and neither of them was screaming, or freaking out.

If this wasn't a weird wine dream, Skye wasn't passing this up.

Leaning in again, she caught Jemma's mouth in another kiss, and was pleased to find the other seemed to have been waiting for her to do that. Jemma made a small, pleased sound, and shifted forward a little more. Skye took that as invitation to coax Jemma's lips apart, and kiss her deeper. Jemma didn't resist. Jemma, in fact, moved even closer, as close as she could get without completely climbing into Skye's lap. Skye tugged her the rest of the way, wrapping her arms around Jemma's waist while she kissed her, reveling in the feeling of Jemma's fingers threading through her hair.

When they broke apart again, Jemma leaned her head against Skye's forehead, and kept her eyes closed, taking a few deep breaths. Skye, for her part, couldn't keep still, eyes roving Jemma's face, handing smoothing up and down her back and sides. This was happening. Jemma was in her lap, making out with her, and maybe they were both a little buzzed, but this had been a long time coming.

“I'm... really enjoying that.” Jemma breathed, her breath puffing against Skye's mouth.

“Then we don't need to stop.” Skye whispered back.

Jemma opened her eyes, pulling back a little to smooth her fingers through Skye's hair. She looked contemplative, like she was weighing the pros and cons of what they were doing, and with every passing second Skye was fighting the urge to interrupt her thoughts. To stop her from questioning whether they should be doing this.

Thankfully, Jemma seemed to decide, if she even had been weighing those things, that this was just fine. Her hands cupped Skye's face, gentle and warm, and she leaned back in, the barest hint of a smile on her lips.

“Then let's not stop.”

 

 

 

Lance was well aware that she shouldn't pick up the phone, if he called. That was even if the number that he had in his phone was even still her number. It wouldn't exactly be easy to track down the new one if she had gone and changed it since the last time they'd spoken. There were things in place to protect federal agents and their families from having their information easily found.

The phone had rung twice now.

Lance vaguely wondered if he was crazy. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, that it could actually hurt his case to do it. Contacting people, particularly your ex, who could hinder your 'not guilty' status based only on merit alone, was never wise.

He'd been told not to leave the city, though. Skye had Jemma over at their place, and, even with how bad things were for _him_ right now, Lance wasn't about to ruin her chances. He'd made himself scarce, and was currently sitting in Mack's spare room. Miles was around, Lance knew, but if Skye had been as blunt with him as she'd been with Lance, Miles wouldn't be at the apartment, and would either be out with other friends, or crashing on said other friends' couch. Mack and Idaho were supportive but, obviously, given that Mack was letting him stay in his spare room for the night, but there was no way Lance was going call Idaho or cross the hall into Mack's room. He wouldn't bother waking either of them.

So, obviously, the next best alternative was to wake his FBI agent ex-wife, and appeal to her to listen to him.

On the fourth ring, the line picked up, and Lance felt his stomach drop away.

Bobbi's voice was thick with sleep, but, given her occupation, she managed to mask it enough. If he hadn't known her, he wouldn't have caught on.

“Lance, you cannot be calling me.”

“I know.”

A sigh. “So then, why are you calling me? This isn't going to help your case. I shouldn't have picked up.”

Lance didn't waste time pointing out that she _had_ picked up. It would only get him in trouble to do that. And, more pointedly, she'd hang out, and that wouldn't help him at all.

“I needed to talk to someone.”

“You have other friends.” Bobbi pointed out.

She wasn't wrong.

“Yeah, but they're sleeping.”

“Oh, okay.” Lance could almost hear her eyes rolling. “But my having been asleep is somehow less important, because why?”

“Because I needed to talk to you.”

Another sigh. “Lance, I can't talk to you about your case off the record. Anything that we say to each other about it has to be recorded, or else it jeopardizes both of us. You know that, you're smart enough to understand that.”

“I don't want to talk about my case.”

There was a pause between them, while Lance waited for Bobbi to make some comment that never came. He was actually shocked by that. He expected her to keep trying her damnedest to shut him down and get off the phone. She was right that it would be best for both of them, if they did, but she wasn't pushing that fact, now that he was giving her the opening to. Why?

“I just want to talk.” He ventured. “I can't sleep, and since we're in each other's lives again...” There was the softest snort, like Bobbi too found it to be reprehensible, the way they had come into each other's lives again. “I figured maybe would could do some catching up. I can tell you how I've been, you can tell me how you've been...”

“Lance, this is technically fraternizing with the enemy.”

“Love,” he started. “We did plenty of fraternizing when we were married.” He cast about for a second, hoping that wouldn't be enough to make her hang up. “Listen. We don't need to talk about our lives now. Why don't you tell me a story from Quantico, and I'll tell you about that time when I was ten and managed to fall in a river.”

There was another pause, in which Lance wondered if Bobbi was ignoring him, before she said, quiet, in a tone that gave away the barest of smiles. “Fine. I'm awake now, I might as well listen to you drone on and on about catching frogs.”

Lance smiled, and launched into the story he knew she'd heard at least twice before.

As upside down as his life was now, and as much as it sucked to have Bobbi back in his life in this way, at least, for an hour, he could forget that she was investigating him for attempted murder, and, when she'd laugh, remember why he fell in love with her in the first place.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew from Hartley's contracting gets together for the first time after the accident, Jemma and Skye have a talk, and Bobbi's doubts find a voice.

“It's good to see you moving around, Izzy.” Bobbi smiled, holding a hand out to her friend as she made her way from her kitchen, back into her living room. It was slow going, and Izzy limped her way from one room to the other, but she was moving around. That was the important part. Already seated on the couch, Victoria nodded, cradling the cup of hot coffee between her hands.

“It's been nice for both of us to be able to move around. The hospital staff were... kind.”

“But they didn't let us do a whole lot of anything,” Izzy finished for her partner, settling in on the couch, having ignored Bobbi's hand the whole way. The agent didn't take any offense to it. Isabelle Hartley was a proud woman, and would take help when it was absolutely necessary, but at no point on her trip from kitchen to couch was Bobbi's offered hand needed.

It was almost comforting to see that Izzy hadn't needed to reach out to take her hand. After the fall both she and Victoria had taken...

Well, it was just a comfort to see them looking so well.

Bobbi settled back into her seat across from the two women. In the chair next to her sat John Garrett, who had been talking animatedly with Tori about something or other before Izzy and Bobbi had rejoined them in the living room. Now, the hard part began. When they had originally interviewed the two in the hospital, they hadn't been able to get much, just the fact that they were both sure that their attacker had been male, and presumably white. Having been given some time to think on it, though, Bobbi hoped that maybe they could point their investigation in the right direction.

And if that direction ended up still being Lance, then... So be it.

“Hate to get right down to it, ladies,” Garrett cut in. The tone of his voice really didn't say that he hated to get right down to it, but Bobbi respected that. They had a lot to get done in terms of this investigation, and Garrett was antsy. She was antsy, if she was honest with herself. She had told Hill repeatedly that there was no concern with her being involved in the case. Yes, she was friends with the victims and yes, her ex was the primary suspect. She refused to let herself be led by those connections, though. It wasn't the mark of a good FBI agent, and that was what she was. “But we should probably get these questions out of the way. Some of them...” Garrett glanced her way. “Might not be entirely comforting.”

Izzy frowned, but nodded, making a 'go on' gesture. Tori settled back in her seat, shifting to get comfortable. That was probably best. They were both approaching the questioning well, and it might make this easier.

But not by much.

“Currently, it may shock you to find, our primary suspect is Lance Hunter.”

Izzy and Tori exchanged confused looks, before both of them looked at Bobbi, and then Garrett. “Lance?” Izzy asked. “That seems... I mean, no offense, Bobbi, but that seems pretty far-fetched.”

Victoria nodded. “I'm with Izzy on that one.”

Garrett grimaced, shifting in his seat. “I understand that it might be hard to accept--”

“--It's not hard to accept, John.” Izzy cut in, again. “It's impossible. I mean, I know you don't have a history with Lance, but Bobbi, you do.”

“Which makes it even stranger that you're working this case.” Tori mused. She and Bobbi locked eyes, and Bobbi caught the slight raise of her eyebrow. A question.

“Agent Hill has made sure that I will be detached and competent enough to continue on the investigation, regardless of my ties to both the victims and the primary suspect.” She explained. Victoria seemed to understand that, with a miniscule nod, but Izzy still looked unconvinced.

“So, have you arrested him, yet?”

“Not yet.” Garrett said, taking over the discussion again. “As it stands, we do have significant evidence that points to Mr. Hunter being a potential perpetrator. Your attacker wore gloves, so there was no chance of lifting a print, and of course, given the location, finding a reliable hair sample would be next to impossible. We don't have much to go on to solidify his role in the attempt on your lives without your input.”

“You've got bigger problems than just that,” Izzy said. “There was more than one attacker. So who was Lance's ally?” She looked between Bobbi and Garrett. “Mack? Idaho?”

“We haven't determined that yet.” Bobbi answered.

“Uh huh.”

“I'm sensing some significant disbelief, here.” Garrett said, laughter in his tones. “I know it's hard to believe, but the evidence against Mr. Hunter is pretty damning.”

“Are we allowed to ask what that evidence is?”

Bobbi glanced at Garrett and then at Hand. Both of them nodded. Bobbi knew where to draw the line when it came to sharing evidence with victims, but Hand was part of the FBI. She would find out one way or another.

“The issues are coming from Lance knowing that you planned to make him partner for some time before you did.” She started. “That, timed with the fact that the incident took place the night you both signed the papers, is suspicious. Lance stands to make quite a bit of money for himself if you're both out of the picture, because he becomes sole owner and beneficiary of Hartley's Contracting.” Bobbi folded her hands in her lap, taking a second. She could see that the explanation was already making the gears in both women's head spin double speed. Lance Hunter, an attempted murderer? Their attempted murderer? It was a hard thing to accept, but the evidence was so damning. “Partnered with that, we have guards swearing that he entered the premises shortly before you two arrived, and left after the supposed time of attack.”

“Lance was at the site?” Izzy asked, clearly confused. “He didn't tell me he was planning to go 'round that night.”

Garrett caught Bobbi's eye, and frowned. That wasn't comforting to hear.

“I can't go into much more detail, but as things stand, it looks disturbingly like Lance might have had a part in what happened.”

“You understand that this is very difficult to accept.” Victoria stated, putting her hand out flat between them. “We have both known Lance for years, and the idea that he might... have designs on the contracting business, let alone our _lives_ is fairly staggering to hear.”

“Not to mention hard to believe.” Izzy added in, but her voice was quiet, far away. So was her gaze, like she was trying to go over the events of that night, already. Trying to see Lance in the covered face of their attacker.

“That's entirely understandable.” Garrett assured them both. “But, and Vic, you'll know this. Many crimes are committed by the people closest to us. A business partner that you've both know for years?” He shrugged. “I wouldn't be writing off the possibility so soon.”

Tori nodded. “But then, who accounts for the second attacker?”

“We'll have to depend on Mr. Hunter to give up that information, once we've made an arrest.” Garrett explained. He paused, and Bobbi knew what was coming next. They hadn't made an arrest yet, because they had not been able to sit down and have this conversation. Talking with Izzy and Tori was intended to make the entire picture clearer, so that they could.

But Bobbi did not want to be the one to ask that question.

Thankfully, John didn't seem to have any qualms with it.

“So, I need to ask.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. “Can either of you confirm that at least one of your attackers that night was Lance Hunter?”

Izzy caught Bobbi's eye, and while she wasn't sure if Izzy was trying to read her, she knew that Izzy was telling her something, before Tori opened her mouth. They couldn't confirm.

But they couldn't deny, either.

“One of the attackers...” Tori waved a hand. “Yes, he matched Lance's build, and it could have been him. He never spoke, and we didn't get very good looks, however, you understand. That leaves us with a significant issue, because we cannot confirm or deny that one of the men who attacked us was Lance Hunter.”

Garrett frowned. “But you're sure that one of them matched his build?”

“Yes.” Izzy answered for her partner.

Garrett nodded again. Bobbi kept her sigh to herself. This wasn't good. No, they couldn't confirm entirely that it was Lance, but they had no significant grounds to deny it was him. Given the rest of their evidence, the fact that one of the men matched Lance's build fairly screwed him. Garrett knew it, Bobbi knew it, and she was damn sure Victoria knew it too.

“Well, you know how it goes.” Garrett said, standing up, and holding out a hand for each of the women to shake. “We'll be in touch. And thank you. I understand that you're both still in pain and exhausted, so thank you for taking the time to talk to us.”

“Yes,” Bobbi agreed, shaking each of their hands as well. “You both take care, okay? Don't.” She pointed a finger at Izzy, smiling slightly as the woman made a move to stand up and walk them out. “We can show ourselves out. You just rest.”

Izzy rolled her eyes, settling again with a slight smile of her own. “You should know by now we can't stay resting for too long, Barbara.”

Bobbi wrinkled her nose, following Garrett to the front door. “Don't call me that, Isabelle.” She looked between the two women, and nodded, a gesture they returned.

They all knew what had happened here.

It was looking less and less likely that Lance would go free.

 

 

 

Jemma's head hurt, which was to be expected. As sometimes happened with their girls' nights, she and Skye had maybe gotten a little bit too deep into the bottle without any sense of pacing, or making sure they were ready for what the wine would leave in its wake. She always ended up with wine-induced headaches the next day, if she wasn't careful. Everything was fine, well and good during the action, but it was always once she'd closed her eyes and drifted off that things seemed to turn on their head and remind her why water was her friend if she was going to be drinking wine.

The pain in her head distracted her for a few minutes while she was working on waking up. It kept her mind from wandering around to the other things that had gone on the night before. There had been wine, and cult classic films. Popcorn and if she remembered right they had been eating straight chocolate chips at one point.

The only reason she remembered that, though, was because she distinctly remembered placing one in Skye's mouth.

Before leaning in and kissing her to take it back.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, opening her eyes.

The two of them were laying in Skye's bed in her room, Jemma on her back, Skye curled on her side, back to the other girl. The curtains were nearly closed all the way, save for a small sliver of light that was coming through between them, and for some reason she wasn't remembering, the small oscillating fan on Skye's low bookcase was on, and rotating back and forth, ruffling the bedcovers as it did. The room was quiet, except for their breathing, but outside she could hear cars going by on the street. If she listened carefully enough, she could hear someone – two someones – moving around.

Miles and Lance.

Home from their own respective nights out?

Jemma shifted in the bed, rolling on her side, moving slow and careful so that she didn't jostle Skye and wake her up. It wasn't unusual for the two of them to share Skye's bed when Jemma stayed over, and the boys wouldn't have much of a comment on that. It would be a good thing, too, because Jemma wasn't sure if she would be able to answer the questions if they came.

Padding across the room, she glanced back, making sure that Skye hadn't woken up while she was extracting herself from the sheets. The other was slumbering on, and that was probably a very good thing. Jemma had a feeling that when they were both awake, either they would avoid discussing what had happened, or they would have to discuss it at length. Either way, she was a bundle of nerves over it.

Jemma opened the door and moved into the hallway, glancing towards the living room. Lance was walking her way, and raised an eyebrow at her while she shut the door.

“Morning, Jemma.”

“Morning, Lance,” she greeted with a smile, doing her best to come off like nothing was remiss.

Nothing was remiss, that was what she had to remember.

“Looks like you guys had a good night.”

Jemma looked over her shoulder, at where Miles was coming out of his room. He gave her a little smile and a wink.

Oh god, did they know something? Had both the girls somehow missed one or the other of them coming home and being witness to their rather heated make-out session on the couch?

Jemma vividly remembered sliding her hands under Skye's shirt, and laughing against Skye's mouth when she gasped.

If either of those two had been privy to that...

“Wine, popcorn, chips. I didn't really look at the whole mess, but it looks like you guys had a good time.”

Jemma's heart returned to a normal pace, and she laughed, waving a hand through the air. “Yes, but I am feeling the wine now.” She gestured towards the bathroom. “I think I should probably take an advil before it gets any worse.”

“Probably a good idea,” Lance agreed, giving her a small, tight smile, not unfriendly, before slipping past her and into his room. “At least it's Sunday, so neither of you really have to worry about being at work or school or anything.”

“Oh, yes,” Jemma agreed with a little nod. Miles returned it and slipped past, continuing on to the living room, leaving her free to dart into the bathroom, and close the door behind her.

“What the hell,” she breathed, putting a hand over her heart, willing it to calm down properly. The boys weren't aware of anything that had gone on the night before, they were just razzing her for the mess the two of them had left in the living room. Nothing more, and nothing less. There was no reason for her to be getting worked up. They didn't know anything, and, hopefully, would only find out after she and Skye discussed things.

Which, Jemma supposed, as she opened up the advil bottle and shook two out into her palm, meant that the two of them really needed to talk about what had happened the night before. The only issue was _when_? Did she bring it up when Skye woke up? Did she leave it until after she'd eaten? Did they give themselves a twenty-four hour cooling period before bringing up the whole situation? What was the protocol here?

Those questions were spinning around in her head when she returned to Skye's room a few minutes later

Skye was awake – apparently wide awake – sitting on the edge of the bed, seemingly waiting for Jemma to come back.

“Morning,” Jemma greeted, cheerily, forcing herself to keep calm, like last night wasn't immediately on her tongue. Skye smiled back. Jemma closed the door behind her.

“Can we talk about last night?”

Skye, it seemed, was not in the mood to entertain a twenty-four hour cooling period.

“Last night?” Jemma asked, tone light, airy. Something that fooled no one, especially not the girl sitting in front of her. She dropped the tone immediately, sighing in a way that seemed to make all the air go out of her. “Last night.” She repeated, firmly, sitting next to Skye on the bed, pointedly not looking at her.

It was, perhaps, too much to hope that what happened last night wouldn't make their friendship awkward, but one didn't stick their tongue in their friend's mouth without things being strangely changed forever after.

“So.” Skye started, gaze on her hands in her lap. Her fingers were twisted and twined together in what looked like a simultaneously painful and satisfying mess. “How drunk were you?”

Her tone was light, now, but Jemma knew better than to trust that. She knew Skye, she knew Skye well, she'd like to think. Skye was trying to keep this all 'chill', but, inside, behind all that carefully crafted bravado, she was quaking.

This changed everything.

“Not very drunk at all.” Jemma answered truthfully. “There's no point in lying to you, Skye. You know what I'm like when I am well and truly sloshed.” She laughed, mirthlessly. “That wasn't at all what I was like, last night.”

“Nope.” Skye agreed, still not meeting Jemma's eyes.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick in the morning air. Outside the bedroom, Lance and Miles continued moving around, snatches of their conversation filtering under the door, barely touching their deaf ears. It felt surreal that those two were going about their Sunday errands while, in here, she and Skye might very well be losing aspects of their friendship with every second that ticked by. It made Jemma's body feel off, wrong. Like she couldn't keep still; if she dared to try, her stillness would shatter Skye's calm into a thousand pieces, and with her, their friendship.

She couldn't take it.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have acted out the way I did. I was tipsy, and you were tipsy, and weeks ago, I thought, maybe, you know, it could be us. You and I, we could be something. But, I think, I was letting my heart and my silly romantic hopes get away with me. Obviously what we already have is more than enough. You're one of my dearest friends, Skye, and I can't imagine my life without you.” The words had come in a rush, seemingly pulled from a single breath, until she was ending on what felt like a desperate, heartbroken wheeze. “And I'll never forgive myself if I've ruined this.”

Skye was looking at her now, mouth hanging open just a bit, eyes wide, almost wild, as the words poured out of Jemma. She wasn't moving, herself. Hair tousled from bed, one cheek still bearing the imprint of the sheets she'd been laying on; even in this state, to Jemma, she was beautiful. That realization was an annoyance, it stung. In a minute's time, that realization might be like the knife twisting in her gut.

“Jemma, please. Please stop talking.” Skye said finally. Her voice was soft, careful.

Jemma pressed her lips together and nodded. There was no arguing with that voice, and no arguing with the hand that Skye raised slowly, as though she was warding off another spew of words from the other girl.

There was another moment of silence, Skye waiting a beat before she spoke. Probably, she was waiting to make sure that Jemma wasn't about to go off again. That was probably a good idea. Despite her quiet promise to stop talking, Jemma could feel the minor well of words bubbling inside her.

“Please don't say you're sorry.” Skye's smile was small, soft, but definitely present. “You don't have a thing to be sorry for. I mean, you did kick me at some point last night when we were asleep, but that's nothing new.” Jemma huffed a small, quiet laugh. “I don't know... Where we are supposed to go from here. I mean, I know where I would like to go. The fact is...”

Skye reached out a hand, tugging one of Jemma's from the clasp they'd been in, their fingers lacing together slow.

“I've kind of, sort of, maybe, been crushing on you. Hard. For a little while now.”

Jemma's heart felt like it might have stopped. That was a feeling she had been prepared to experience, but hadn't expected, had barely dared hope, that is would be because of those words coming out of Skye's mouth.

“You kissed me last night, and I,” Skye laughed, looking ceiling-ward. “I wanted to get up, punch the air, scream 'YES'. I was ready to have a touchdown celebration in my living room, because Jemma Simmons was kissing me. And now, you're sitting next to me, and telling me... At least, it _sounds_ like you're telling me... That you've got the hots for me, and have for a little bit, at least, and that kiss – all those kisses – were intentional, and not because of the wine.” She met Jemma's eyes, then, and she could see all the hope swimming with the unavoidable anxiety in that look. “I mean, I'd like to think that means you're into me, and I'm into you, and maybe this can be something other than Mean Girls and wine? And me trying to forget I've got it bad for you by sleeping with Lance because,” Skye made a 'poof' noise, shaking her head. “Sweet guy and all but he is _no_ Jemma Simmons.”

Jemma laughed. She couldn't help it. It started as a reaction to Skye's words about Lance, but as every word before that sank in, her laughter became more and more helpless, until Skye was laughing, too, and reaching for her. Her arms came around Jemma, tugging her into a hug, laughing against her hair while Jemma tried to collect herself, giggling into Skye's shoulder.

Only once her stomach was beginning to hurt from the laughter was she able to take a shaky breath and lean away from Skye's shoulder, reaching up to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Sorry.”

“Hey. Didn't I just tell you that you had nothing to be sorry about?”asked Skye, with a stern look. “Besides, that was... really cute.”

Jemma could say the same about the smile that Skye was giving her now.

“You've really had a crush on me?”

“Like _whoa_ ,” Skye said with a nod. “Same?”

“Like you said,” Jemma nodded along. “Like _whoa_. And lately, with all of Fitz's romantic drama, and everything, the time we've been spending together.” She paused, collecting her words in the most sensible way. “It has become harder to ignore.”

Skye nodded, looking pensive. She held both of Jemma's hands in hers, and her thumbs rubbing absent circles over the back of them while she frowned. It was an oddly calmly sensation, given how riled up Jemma felt. “Stick with me for a second, here, but what if we decided not to ignore it?”

It was Jemma's turn to frown. “You mean, just go with the fact that we have crushes on each other?”

“Sure,” Skye shrugged. “What can it hurt, right?”

“Our friendship.” Jemma pointed out, voice low, holding Skye's eyes no matter how much she longed to turn away.

Skye's frown returned with a vengeance, and her fingers squeezed Jemma's, both defiant and reassuring.

“Not if we don't let it.”

 

 

 

“You boys don't know how much I need this.” Bobbi flopped down on Grant's couch, kicking her legs out, toes stretching to the arm, blocking Grant's attempt to sit, himself. He gave her a flat look, but moved to the armchair next to that end of the couch instead. He twisted the cap off his beer bottle and tossed it at her. It bounced off her knee and landed on her stomach. There was a _clink_ as another cap bounced off of it, tossed from Trip's side of the living room. “Would you two not?” She asked, spreading her arms as best she could in an expression of annoyance. It didn't work very well when she was smiling.

“No, much easier to just,” Trip waved a hand. “Go ahead and _do_.”

“I hate you both.” Bobbi said, shifting on the couch to get into something of a sitting position. Her legs crossed at the ankles and she reached for a beer of her own, twisting the cap off. “Every Sunday off is like a vacation sent from heaven, and you two are ruining it by throwing beer caps at me like a couple of kids.”

“Well, either we toss them at you, and goad you into getting that weight off your shoulders, or I throw them at Grant and try to get the deets out of him about the rest of his date last night.”

Ward raised a hand in a firm ' _no_ ' gesture. “A gentleman never kiss--”

“--Oh, so there was kissing?” Bobbi cut in, happy for the distraction. Grant's flat look returned, but he shrugged her off.

“I stayed the night at Leo's place.” He explained with a little shrug. “We _slept_ , there was nothing more than that. It was...” He was doing so well at keeping it together, but Bobbi could see the smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Nice. I had a good time. Took him out for brunch this morning. There, are you happy?” He turned a sarcastic look on Trip. “Or are you going to look for things to throw at me?”

“Um, can I just point out that neither of you had reason to throw things at me, and you still did?” Bobbi asked, raising her hand like she was in class. “I think that gives at least _me_ leave to throw things at you.”

Trip was grinning like a cheshire cat, waggling his finger in Ward's direction. “You called him Leo.”

Bobbi gasped, dramatic, and turned her gaze on Trip. “You're right. He did. Ohhh.” She glanced back at Ward, who was rolling his eyes, caught. “Leo, now, is it? That's good. That's progress. You've moved on from his fondness for his nickname, right into first name territory, and you spent the night in his bed.” She tipped her beer bottle in his direction. “So proud.”

“I see big things in your future, my friend.” Trip said, leaning back in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. “So does Raina, if that means anything.”

“Raina still terrifies me,” Ward shot back, with a jovial grin. “So, I'm not sure what it means, but it definitely means _something_.”

Trip laughed. “Why you got to rag on her like that? She was well behaved last night. Didn't throw you under the bus in front of your date at all.”

“Makes me nervous about what she's gonna try to pull next, to be honest,” Grant said in a faux dark tone, taking a swig of his beer. “Subject change! Bobbi, how was your night?”

Bobbi had been happily enjoying the banter back and forth, the time reserved for needling at Grant, and edging closer and closer to finding out if even Trip knew what his girlfriend did for a living (he had to, didn't he?). At Ward's words, though, she remembered the phone call she had been woken up by, the one she had taken despite her better judgment.

She had known, when Lance's name showed up on the call display, that she had a moral and occupational obligation not to take the call. He was the prime suspect in a case that she was investigating. Bobbi was already on rocky ground with this case, due to their past, not to mention her connections to the victims. Taking that call could come up, somewhere down the line, and it could throw the entire investigation into jeopardy.

Still, she had picked it up.

She'd answered the call, and laid in bed, and discussed old things with Lance. Laughed at his stupid stories, and forgotten for a little while that they were split up and that he was technically edging closer and closer to being her perp.

Speaking of which...

“I'm beginning to have doubts that Lance was involved in this.”

Both men stilled, and then frowned. She knew those looks. She had been prepared for them to cross their faces.

“This isn't because he and I have a history,” she added. “If you look at it, it just works out too clean. I mean, there is no one else to point to, except for, maybe, the security guards, but all of them are accounted for on the video feed.”

Trip grimaced. “No offense, Bobbi, but sometimes, I mean, we all know it...” He looked at Grant to back him up.

“When it all works out too cleanly, it's usually a dumb criminal, and not a bad investigation.” He finished, catching Trip's look.

Bobbi rolled her eyes. “You both think I haven't considered that realistic possibility?” At least they had the intelligence to look chagrined by her words. They both knew that she wasn't going to overlook that possibility. “Yeah, that could be it. Lance isn't exactly a mastermind. But, still, something about all of this feels off.” She shrugged. “I have considerable doubt. It's all just falling into place a little too easily. Not just that, but neither Tori or Izzy can for sure say that it was Lance.”

“They were surprise attacked, though,” Grant pointed out. “Could account for the lack of credible visual. If they weren't looking around to see anyone coming at them, it's not exactly hard to imagine they didn't see him coming, and once they were pushed, they weren't too focused on figuring out if it was Hunter or not.”

“Also means they really can't say it _wasn't_ him.” Trip gave Bobbi an apologetic look. “I mean, trust me, I get where you're coming from. None of us ever want to see the people we love – or have loved – turn out to be capable of attempting murder, but.” He shifted in his seat. “It's kind of in the job description.”

Bobbi nodded along with both of them. She knew, logically, they were right, and they weren't attempt to debase her doubts. She respected that. They were pointing out the holes her doubts had, and it was what she expected from the two of them. Working as a team was what made the Violent Crimes division successful.

Despite their sound arguments, though, Bobbi still had her doubts.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye finds advice for her's and Jemma's situation in an unlikely place, and the two of them go on an honest to goodness date. Meanwhile, things don't continue the upward momentum Fitz and Ward were hoping for.

Their apartment was in a bit of a state. Skye wasn't afraid to admit it. The fact of the matter was, with how much they worked and were out of the place, they didn't tend to really clean up after themselves. It was the side effect of their condition, being young adults and all. The apartment wasn't exactly filthy, but a sweep, mop, and run of the vacuum, not to mention a good dusting, would do it good.

With Lance at the office, that meant that she and Miles were the only ones free to do it. Lance had returned to work with the full support of Mack and Idaho, though he suspected that there were others at the company, and some of their subcontractors, who wondered whether or not he did it. Skye knew that he was keeping himself awake at night worrying about that. Worrying about who believed he'd tried to take over the business, worrying about what would happen next, worried about how he was supposed to face Izzy and Victoria. He hadn't been to see them yet, though Skye knew that he had engaged in a lengthy text conversation with Izzy the day they'd gone home.

Part of Skye wondered if it was because he felt guilty for what had happened to them. Like, maybe, some part of Lance was blaming himself for what had happened that night, while he'd been in the main trailer, doing menial office tasks. Trying to be a good business partner, while his business partner was lying in pain and knocked out in the pit they'd dug for their project.

“Do I have to open this, or can I just... throw out whatever science experiment is living in this container?”

Miles' question derailed Skye's train of thought while she washed the dishes, and she glanced his way. In his hands was a container that she remembered seeing Lance put in the fridge. More than three weeks ago, at least. More than likely there were many, many cultures growing in that thing. Skye shuddered dramatically and pointed at the garbage bag on her other side, already full of science experiments like that one. They were going to have to take that thing down to the dumpster as soon as Miles finished cleaning out the fridge.

“Dump it and chuck the toxic container in here,” she said, indicating the steaming water in front of her. “Hopefully it's enough to burn away whatever unholy thing is left clinging to the tupperware.”

Miles laughed, a sound that quickly turned into a horrified groan as he opened and emptied the container. Skye's nose picked up the tangy must coming off whatever had been inside it, and she found herself seconding that groan.

“We have to stop letting it get to this point.” She pointed out, holding her hand aside so Miles could slide the tupperware into the hot water.

“Yeah, except,” Miles got back down on his knees in front of their fridge. “We say that literally every time, and yet, nothing ever changes.”

“I think that happens in most households, really,” Skye said in their defense. She was glad she had opted for rubber gloves to do this. Not only did it protect her skin from the scalding hot water, but it made it a little more bearable to wash whatever the disgusting innards were off the container Miles had just put into the water.

“I bet it doesn't happen at Fitzsimmons'.” Miles countered. Skye smiled at the nickname for their two friends.

“No, you're right. But, then again, maybe it does. The two of them are so busy, too, and I think, maybe, sometimes, Jemma might even consider the merit of something that's done a long stint in the fridge as a true science experiment.”

Miles snorted. “That's horrifying. If she wanted experiments, though, in another few weeks, I'm sure we will have a half dozen over here for her. So, don't be shy about inviting her over to have at.”

“I'll be sure to do that.” Skye said. Bringing up Fitz and Jemma reminded her of the conversation she and Jemma had shared the morning after their little makeout session. It had been four days since, and while they weren't being avoidant when it came to each other, things where definitely not the same as they had been.

“Speaking of Jemma,” Miles started, and Skye considered the merit of flicking the hot, dirty water at him. “How is everything?”

Skye frowned, looking over at him. “Really? Not even a week?”

“Hey, we're roommates. I have a right to know if you two are going to be getting down – literally--”

“--Ew, Miles, I really don't want you thinking about Jemma and I--”

“--On the regular. Just so I know it's you two making those noises, and not Lance's sadness porn.”

“Oh my fucking god.” Skye flung her hands up, trying not to laugh. “First of all, has he actually been watching porn?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Miles admitted. “Just kind of seems like something he'd do, doesn't it?”

Skye frowned, moving on from considering it. “Second of all, you're a pig.”

“Not news.” Miles pointed out, going back to shifting things around in the fridge. “I'm honestly curious, though. How are things with you two?”

Turning back to the sink, Skye shrugged and started digging around in the basin for utensils. “We talked about it.”

“So...?”

“So what?”

“Are you dating, now?”

Skye snorted. “No. We're trying not to let this whole 'we have crushes' thing ruin our friendship, and I think trying to figure out how to do that, while still making out and such, has slowed us down.”

Miles hummed thoughtfully, rocking back on his heels. As he gave the fridge a critical look, he said, “So, have you been making out?”

“Miles!”

“I wasn't being a pervert that time!”

Skye gave him a level look.

“I wasn't! I – Okay, listen. Are you listening?” He paused, clearly waiting for her to nod. “All right. So, you're trying to figure out how to not ruin your friendship, while still... being able to date?”

Skye nodded.

“Have you actually kissed since Saturday?”

Skye looked away, back into the murky water. “No.”

“Have you planned any dates, since Saturday?”

Another, more petulant, “No.”

Skye saw Miles shrug grandly out of the corner of her eye. “Listen, I'm no relationship counselor, but I don't know how you guys are supposed to even try dating if you never plan a date.”

It sounded so simple, when he said it like that.

Skye and Jemma had been spending the better part of the last few days edging towards holding hands – sometimes – and cuddling in close to each other – occasionally – but neither of them had actually said the D-word. Neither had actually acknowledged that the easiest way to figure out how to juggle a romance and their friendship was, well, to actually _try it_.

Oh, that made her feel stupid.

Skye could only imagine how Jemma would feel when it turned out that _Miles_ was the one who put it simply and made their most effective plan of action plain as day.

“You can thank me after she goes down on you.” Miles said, clearly reading the understanding on Skye's face.

“That's it.”

Skye rolled off one of her gloves, slapping Miles upside the head with it.

“You are such a pig!”

A pig with a point.

She needed to call Jemma.

 

 

 

Skye looked radiant. Jemma thought that maybe she should tell her that, but she also suspected that it was written all over her face. Ever since they had talked last Sunday morning, she had been wondering more and more what the point was in trying to hide her feelings for her friend. For her crush. There was little point if Skye knew, and even lesser point if Skye was willing to act on their shared crush.

To try and make this work.

Because they could make it work. If anyone could, it would be the two of them.

“I spent the morning and most of the afternoon helping Miles clean the apartment,” Skye said as she joined Jemma on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. “So, I'm really sorry if I don't look presentable.”

Jemma was about to argue that there was absolutely nothing about Skye that didn't look presentable, when she caught the mischievous spark in the other's eye. “You're terrible.” She said instead, blunt, but with a smile. Skye's grin exploded across her face, making Jemma's stomach tighten and turn in the happiest of uncomfortable movements.

“I just wanted to see if you'd say anything,” Skye said, reaching out to take Jemma's hand. Their fingers laced together and she wondered if Skye could feel the thrumming of her pulse. They were both dressed up nicely, dresses and heels, her in black, Skye in pink, standing outside a restaurant that, Fitz had said, would rival the one he and Ward had gone to, in terms of class.

They were actually going on a date. This was really and truly happening.

“Honest to God fancy table bread at a place that isn't Cheesecake Factory.” Skye pulled a piece of bread from the basket that had been left for them while the waitress got their drinks. Her fingers pulled the bread in half and she offered half to Jemma. “This place is fancy. I'm proud of my choice.”

Jemma laughed, taking the bread from her. “You should be. I'm very impressed.”

“Wooed?”

“Oh, I'd say so,” Jemma agreed. There was no point in saying that she had been thoroughly wooed by the sight of Skye getting out of her cab to join her outside the restaurant. That was, maybe, too much to announce on their first real date. “Getting there, anyway.”

“Mm.” Skye chewed, swallowed and grinned again. “So, I still have a bit to go before I've totally and completely wooed you?”

Jemma couldn't bear to lie. “Not _too_ far.”

Skye's smug smile was a good reward for her honesty.

They continued chatting – flirting, really – back and forth over their drinks, and then when their meals came. It was so easy to fall into this role, with Skye. Their friendship had already made them so open and comfortable with each other. Jemma would admit to some trepidation going into all this. They had just admitted their feelings to each other. It changed things, whether or not they wanted it to. They both had owned up to that, but then seemed unsure in where to go. This, a proposition made by _Miles_ , of all people, had been a good idea, but also left Jemma a little nervous. Things could have easily gone sideways and left them in a bad place, in terms of both their friendship and their impending romance.

It didn't seem, however, that things were going to go sideways at all.

They were laughing, and talking, and sharing things, the same as they had when it was just the two of them as friends, but there was a different edge to it now. There was an edge of something a little more intimate, which made sense. It didn't feel wrong.

It felt so right, and Jemma could have cried at the relief of that.

While they waited for their dessert, Skye reached her foot across underneath the table, nudging it against Jemma's. Her smile was cheeky, but almost hesitant, and Jemma nudged her back. The sensation of Skye's ankle brushing hers followed and Jemma grinned down at the table. “Footsies?”

“Isn't this what couples do?”

There was that tight and twisting feeling again.

“It is,” Jemma replied, looking up again. “Does that mean you think...?”

“This. Us. Absolutely doable, this way.” Skye's tone was firm, confident. It was the cherry on top of an already wonderful evening, and they hadn't even kissed yet. If they were going to kiss, that was.

She sort of suspected they were.

“It's really good to hear you say that.” Their waitress returned, setting the extravagant looking dessert between them, along with two spoons. Once she left, they picked up the spoons, digging into hot crisp and ice cream. The dessert tasted just as good as it looked, and Jemma closed her eyes for a second, savouring it.

She didn't miss the telltale feeling of Skye's eyes on her, however. Once she opened them, again, she caught Skye staring, her spoon in her mouth. The other smiled, and took the utensil out of her mouth, seeming to hesitate before saying, “You know, I feel like I could have been dating you for a long time now. This feels so,” her spoon did a loop through the air, “natural. I love it.”

Jemma smiled. “Me too.”

The rest of the dessert passed in sweet silence, both of them stealing glances, and Skye continuing to attempt to engage Jemma in a game of footsies. Jemma just about choked when Skye had the audacity to slide her foot up Jemma's leg, higher and higher until her toes were brushing the side of Jemma's knee. They agreed, after a brief argument, to split the bill (“Doesn't mean it isn't still a date, since you've still managed to molest my knee with your foot”), and headed outside to hail a cab.

As they stood on the curb, Skye turned to Jemma, and without any preamble, leaned in. Her fingers curved around the back of Jemma's neck, holding her steady as their lips met. She tasted like apples and cinnamon and vanilla ice cream. Like caramel and vodka and promise. Jemma's knees felt weak, kissing back, laying her hands, careful and almost reverent, on Skye's sides.

They didn't break apart until the cab pulled up next to them.

Skye's apartment was closest, and, unfortunately, they both had work and class the next morning. Skye would be dropped off first, and Jemma after her, Skye insisting that she give Jemma enough cash to cover the entire ride.

As practical as it was, it also meant that a shared night would not be in the cards, given their morning commitments.

And, as Jemma whispered into Skye's ear, in the back of the cab, they should try and take things a _little_ slow. For a second, she had been worried that she'd breached a subject that Skye wasn't entirely comfortable with confronting right yet, but then she caught the smirk on Skye's face in the light of a traffic light outside the cab.

“No,” she agreed, leaning forward. Her words broke against Jemma's lips, she was so close. “Taking it slow sounds like a good idea. Build things up?” She kissed Jemma again. “Make it that much better... when we get to it?”

Jemma was shocked their cabbie wasn't interrupting. Hopefully, he couldn't hear him. If he could see Jemma's reddening cheeks in the rearview, he might try to listen in a little harder. “And we will get to it?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Skye claimed her mouth in another kiss, and Jemma made a small, pleased sound.

Kissing Skye while her head was fuzzy with wine had been one thing. Kissing Skye while they were both essentially sober, and high on nothing but good food and each other's company was glorious.

But, of course, it had to end.

They pulled up to Skye's apartment, and the cabbie cleared his throat. With a little pout, Jemma pulled away from Skye, waiting while she sorted out a few bills, and pressed them into Jemma's palm. Then she stole one more kiss, surprising Skye, apparently, who seemed to have hoped to be the one to do that.

“One for the road,” Jemma explained with a little grin.

Skye grinned back, sliding out of the cab. “I had a really good night, Jemma.”

“Me too.” Jemma's grin turned soft. “We should do it again.”

“We will,” Skye promised. “Goodnight.”

She closed the cab door, standing back and blowing Jemma a kiss. She returned it, and waved, keeping her eyes on Skye. The other didn't turn to head into her building until Jemma's cab was almost out of view. Only once Skye turned did Jemma turn back around.

She caught the cab driver's eyes in the rearview, and slid down a little in her seat, giving him an apologetic smile.

“So sorry about that. It was our first real date.”

The cabbie chuckled. “No worries, miss. You two sure looked happy. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Jemma said, giving him another smile.

That was so nice to hear. They looked happy.

Jemma knew she, for sure, was _very_ happy.

The cab had only been driving for a few minutes when Jemma's phone went off in her purse. She pulled it open, digging through until she found it, and pulled it out to see the display reading SKYE.

She smiled, and accepted the call, lifting it to her ear. “Missed me already?” she said, suave as she could manage, but she wavered when she heard Skye's voice.

“What the fuck did you say to him?” She was saying, sounding thoroughly confused but annoyed in the same breath. There was another voice in the background, deep, and vaguely familiar, and then Skye again. “Fitz, hold up, Jemma's cab just left, I can- Fitz! Dammit. Hi.”

“Hi.” Jemma said, feeling her stomach tighten in a way that was entirely unrelated to how Skye made her feel. “What's going on?”

“I have no idea, but do you think you can get the cab to come back? I got up here, and Fitz is storming out of Ward's apartment. Ward says they 'had a fight',” she put on a deep, dumb tone. “Fitz is stampeding down the stairs. I think he could use the ride home, and your presence.” She paused. “I'm sorry to add this twist ending to our fairytale date, Jem.”

Jemma smiled. “It's not your fault at all.” She said, leaning forward to speak with the cabbie.

At some point, their lives had to stop being so dramatic.

Right?

 

 

 

When Fitz had gotten home that afternoon, Jemma had been in the middle of some kind of tornado that was contained to their apartment and their apartment only. Her clothes had been spread out on the couch, and hanging from the doors, and her shoes were up and down the hallway. He had been about to ask if she was doing some kind of donation-related spring cleaning, deciding what it was that she was going to give away, when she had exclaimed, “Oh thank _God_ you're home! I need your help deciding what I'm going to be wearing on my date tonight.”

Date, because Jemma was now dating. Specifically, Jemma was now dating Skye. Leo was immediately very happy for her, ecstatic, over the moon, really. While other people they knew were having a shit go of it, at least, for the two of them, things seemed to only be going up. He'd worked up the courage to make a move with Ward, and it had panned out nicely, and for Jemma's side, she had done the same with Skye. Yes, there was the not-so-small matter of the two of them being concerned about the way their new-found romantic relationship would impact their platonic one. That was understandable.

Not every platonic relationship turned romantic was so easy to salvage as a platonic one again when things broke down. If they broke down. Fitz knew that they were a prime example of only the best possible way things could go.

Things could, and often did, go tits up if she and Skye weren't careful.

The thing was, though, Fitz had a feeling that if things broke down for the girls, they would be okay.

Voicing that, a few days ago, though, hadn't put Jemma's mind at ease. If anything it had set her more on edge.

And now, here she was, tearing their apartment to shreds, in a way, because she was stressing out over what to wear on a date with the person who was, after Fitz, her best friend.

Jemma _did_ always like to have things be _just so_.

He'd humoured her, of course. He wouldn't be her best-best friend if he didn't; between the two of them, they were able to pick out something that made Jemma look beautiful, but not like she was trying too hard to look high class. That distinction was very important, according to the other.

Fitz wouldn't know, but he trusted what she said. After all, she had more fashion sensibility than him in her little finger, when it came to the important things like this.

Thankfully, they had wrapped up her minor meltdown in a decent amount of time, and while Jemma hopped in the shower to start getting ready, he had gone to his room to change, and then head out. Jemma wasn't the only one with date plans, but the plans that she had with Skye were, in his opinion, probably far more high class than the ones that he had with Grant.

Not that Leo was in any way complaining.

It was nice to go out, just the two of them, for dinner, and sometimes a movie. Their first date had been spot-on and perfect. But there was also something to be said for the two of them just crowding together on Grant's couch, and watching a movie. It was romantic and intimate in a different way from a fancy dinner.

Those were their plans tonight. Leo was going to make his way over to Grant's – at his own insistence, even though Grant had offered to come pick him up – with an overnight bag, just in case. Ward apparently had a few movies in mind for the two of them to get through, over Chinese takeout. A few days ago they'd gotten into a heated text argument about the importance of Fitz experiencing certain ' _cinematic masterpieces_ ', as Grant had put it. That had resulted in their date plans for tonight.

Jemma's concern for her own wardrobe hadn't rubbed off on Leo, and after pulling on a pair of faded jeans and a short-sleeved pink and yellow button up, he'd carefully paired a navy tie with his ensemble, hastily tied, and tossed a few things in his shoulder bag. Another shirt for the next day, a change of underwear and socks, toiletries. The important things.

His hand had hovered over the box of condoms tucked in his bedside table before he'd added three to the bag – carefully tucked into his rolled socks. Yes, Grant more than likely had those, if they ended up in a situation where they needed them, but it didn't hurt to be prepared.

He'd left the lube. Hopefully, Ward would have that too.

If things came to that.

Fitz had knocked on the bathroom door, calling to Jemma to have a good night, and then headed out, in a good mood, excited for the evening's plans.

Everything had been perfect, too.

Grant had pulled up alongside him while he was walking from the bus stop, and coaxed him into the car, driving the short minute and a half drive to his building, before parking and leaning over to catch Leo's lips in a slow kiss. The whole thing had put a smile on his lips that felt like it would never leave. They'd gone up to Ward's apartment, trading kisses that had led to Fitz standing with his back pressed to the wall of the elevator before it interrupted them with a quiet _ding_.

Ward had told him to make himself at home while he set away his work things, and then had dropped down on the couch with Fitz, phone in hand, the closest Chinese restaurant's website already pulled up. Deciding what they were going to get had taken them the better part of nearly half an hour. They kept writing things down, and crossing them out, going back, changing the order, wondering what certain things were, vehemently agreeing that they absolutely didn't want to know what _other_ things might be. By the time they'd made the order, almost an hour had passed already, and the whole thing had been spent caught in laughter and amusement.

Plus, the promise of food, which wasn't a small thing, by Fitz's standards.

After that, while they'd waited for the food to arrive, they'd ended up on the floor, cross legged beside each other, going through Grant's DVD collection. It had surprised Fitz at first to learn that Grant was something of a movie buff, alongside being quite the history buff. He didn't seem like the type, but maybe that was because of his occupation. FBI Agents didn't generally seem like the type of people who easily fell into such commonplace hobbies. He did, however, and pointing out movies on the shelf that he hadn't seen, Leo found he kind of loved it. It was fun to watch Grant's face go skeptical, to hear the tone of his voice when he asked 'really? You've _never_ seen that?'

It was such a close, easy thing.

It was nice.

Their food had arrived shortly after they had started the first movie, another whole hour passing without either of them really noticing. Grant had done a careful job of spreading the containers out on the coffee table, before handing Fitz a plate, and inviting him to dig in. The movie had continued on while they ate, the two of them stuffing their faces until even Leo was groaning that he was going to throw up if he ate any more. The food stayed on the coffee table while the movie finished. Leo didn't stay on his side of the couch, instead sliding over and cuddling into Grant's side, plucking his hand up from the couch to twist their fingers together.

Once the movie had ended, he'd proposed that they tuck the food away in the fridge before starting the next.

That was where the trouble had started.

“But, you can't actually believe that.” Leo said, frowning deeply as he handed Grant the plastic lid for a container of spare ribs. “I know that you don't know him the way that I do, but I think you can understand that Lance isn't the kind of person who would do the things that your division is saying he might have.”

“I get that.” Ward said, pushing the lid down and tucking the container in the fridge. “But you have to understand. From where we are standing, the pieces are all pointing at Lance Hunter as being the suspect.” He sighed, folding the tops of a carton of rice. “I shouldn't even be discussing this with you, Leo.”

Fitz frowned. There was an annoying paradox to the fact that Grant was using his first name – and he didn't mind – but it was while they were arguing about – no, discussing – Lance's case. It didn't have quite the pleasing effect that it was attempting to have. Fitz didn't like that.

“I know you shouldn't be, and I'm sorry I brought it up.” He said, handing Ward two closed boxes. “It's just that it seems like it's been a very long time, and there haven't been any formal charges laid. Lance is going out of his mind, wondering whether or not he's going to be charged with attempted murder.”

“Which is regrettable.” Ward said, glancing at Fitz before shifting some things around in the fridge. “But is sort of par for the course, in these things. Usually by now, yes, we would have pressed charges against him and taken him in for processing. There are things holding that up, though, so he's going free in the meantime.”

Leo's frown deepened and he passed Grant the last container that needed to be put away. “The way you say that makes it sound like you think he did it.”

“I can't discuss it. I'm not even on the case, technically.”

“Oh, come on.” Fitz crossed his arms, watching Ward stand up and close the refrigerator door. The other gave him a confused look, and Fitz rolled his eyes. “You can give me your opinion. That's not something that has to be off the record, is it?”

Ward's mouth tightened while he clearly warred with himself. Fitz was sure he had a point. Ward wasn't involved in the actual investigation against Lance, and it stood to reason that anything he said to Fitz stood as his opinion and his opinion only.

“Why don't we pick the next movie?”

Grant moved to head towards the living room, but found his path blocked. Leo thought he looked surprised. Leo himself was certainly surprised.

He hadn't realized how heated his blood felt until he caught himself having stepped into his boyfriend's space, blocking his path.

“Can you or can you not give me your opinion?” He asked, enunciating clearly.

“I can,” Ward answered. “You might not like it.”

Leo felt the pit of his stomach tighten, threatening to drop away. “Try me.”

“I don't know if Lance is innocent.”

It was Fitz's turn to feel his mouth tighten, eyes narrowing as he raised his eyebrows in vague suspicion. “So, you think he's guilty?”

“I think...” Grant sighed. “Can we drop this?”

“No, I don't think we can.” Fitz said, holding up his hands, forming something more of a blockade to stop Grant from getting around him. “Lance is my friend, and you're my boyfriend, yeah, but he was around first, and I know. I know this is your job, but I can't believe that Lance would do what you're saying he did.”

“I never said I thought he did it!”

“You certainly didn't say you _didn't_!”

“Holy shit,” Ward threw up his hands, backing up a pace and shaking his head. “This is ridiculous. You knew what I did when you gave me your damn number. You are intelligent enough to understand that my job means that I'm privy to info I cannot – and don't have to, actually – share with you, just because you ask.” Another headshake, this time with an amazed smile. Not amazed in a good way, either. “But you're standing here, telling me that I have to tell you what I think your friend did, when I have access to information that _you don't_ , and that information is _seriously_ making me consider the possibility that your pal is guilty.”

Fitz could feel the anger bubbling in his veins. It ran through his system, acid hot, and making him feel volatile, like he could happily explode at any second. “You think he did it.”

“Right now?” Ward shrugged, spreading his arms wide before letting them fall to his sides. “Yeah. Yeah, I kind of do. I take it that's a problem, right? Because I'm seeing evidence you haven't that leads me to believe this, but because he's your friend, you can't dare even consider the idea.”

“Because that's not what friends do!”

“That is _all_ that friends do!” Ward tossed back, and Fitz froze. He hadn't had Ward raise his voice at him, yet, and when he did, it wasn't nice. He hadn't expected it to be. “That's all that friends, and lovers, and family does.” Ward continued. “They're almost, without fail, always the ones that stab you in the back – sometimes literally. Sorry, I don't make the rules, I just investigate and hope that, this time, they're wrong.” He gave another shrug. “Rarely works out that way.”

Leo nodded, turning on his heel and marching into the living room. His pulse was singing in his ears, angry and defiant, even while he heard the logic of Grant's argument.

His shoulder bag was on the floor by the door, and he picked it up quickly, opening the door. “Have a good one, Grant.” He said, not looking back as he stormed into the hallway.

“What? Wait – Leo, what?”

Fitz could hear Grant following him, stepping into the hallway and saying his name again. Skye was stopped in her tracks in the hallway ahead of him, smile dying on her lips as she took in his gait and expression, eyes flicking from him to Ward and back before she asked, “Hey, everything okay?”

“No.” He said, simply, moving past her, continuing on down the hall. Behind him, he heard Skye breathe, 'shit. Shit shit shit,' before saying “What the fuck did you say to him?”

“We discussed your friend's case, and I lost my temper,” Ward answered. He sounded chagrined, but Leo was too far gone on his march out, now. He couldn't go back.

His explanation, and Skye calling after him to wait, and that Jemma had just left, were the last things he heard before he pushed open the door to the stairwell, and disappeared down it, losing both her voice, and Grant's.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, this fic earns its M rating.  
> Welcome to the sex chapter.

“You're going to have to see him some time, Fitz.”

“It's not even been twenty-four hours.” He countered, not looking at Jemma from where he was sitting on the balcony, going over some of his coursework.

“Yes, and he has left you...” There was a pause, presumably while she double checked the number of missed calls on his phone. “Ten messages. He had to sleep at some point, so this seems rather sincere to me.”

“Yeah, well, you weren't there last night,” Fitz argued back, still not looking up. “His whole stance on the Lance issue seemed pretty sincere, too.”

There was a sigh, and then Jemma was nudging him with her foot, encouraging him to move over so that she could pull her chair around closer and really get in his face about this. It was almost annoying, how well she meant. She wasn't trying to upset him, and she wasn't siding against him, either, he knew.

He just wanted to stew in his righteous anger for a little longer.

“You know that he isn't even working on Lance's case, right?” she prodded, gently, folding her arms on the table and giving him a pointed look.

“Right,” Leo agreed, finally meeting her eyes. “And that means that he doesn't actually have to have a concrete opinion on the matter. Still, he stood there and told me that because most of the time, it's friends that try to kill friends, he's pretty sure Lance did it.” He gave her a condescending look that was less meant for her than it was for the man who wasn't even in their apartment. “I mean, tell me that's not faulty logic.”

“So, he didn't base it on what he knows of the evidence at all, hm?” Jemma prompted, raising her eyebrows.

She had him there.

Leo had known, when he was storming down the stairwell, that he'd been a little too harsh. Yes, Lance was his friend, and for that reason, he was loath to believe that the man could have tried to kill his longtime friend and her partner. None of it added up, to Fitz, but like Grant had said last night, and Jemma was saying without outright saying it now, there had to be evidence to back up the idea that Lance could have done it in the first place.

Given that no charges had been laid, yet, that had to mean that there was either significant evidence to the contrary, or, more likely, the evidence they had wasn't entirely enough to damn Lance on alone.

Still, though, there  _ was  _ evidence. They couldn't have gone around interviewing Lance about the possibility that he'd done it if they didn't have something pointing them in his direction.

Fitz knew that, but after his performance last night, and the way he and Grant had fought, he wasn't keen on admitting to it.

At least, not to anyone but Jemma.

“Okay, so, he might have mentioned the evidence.” He allowed. “And, no, he didn't tell me what that evidence was, because he technically isn't supposed to tell me those things. He was being a good federal agent.”

“He was doing his job.” Jemma said. “And, from what you've told me, was trying to avoid exactly this sort of thing happening.” Her hand covered his, sweet and gentle. Jemma knew him better than most anyone in the world. She'd known the argument he was having with himself, the kicking that he was doing over the way things had gone. She knew that he wanted to pick up Grant's calls and yell at him for yelling at _him_ , but also to apologize for things going sideways, the way that they had. It was comforting and infuriating to know that she knew him that way. “Because he knew you wouldn't want to hear that he was being swayed by the evidence. Because he knows that Lance is your friend.”

She tapped his phone screen. “And also? He keeps calling because he wants to make this up to you. Not that I've listened to any of your messages from him...”

Fitz narrowed his eyes. “Jemma...”

“All right, I listened to one!” She admitted, pulling her hand back to slap it on the table. “But, dammit, you were being so stubborn, and I wanted to make sure he was being sincere before I came out here and pleaded his case to you!”

“I never should have told you my passcodes.”

“I am an agent of love!”

“Now you just sound ridiculous,” Fitz grinned, finally.

“I was _helping_ ,” she shot back, but grinned herself, seeing the expression on him. “You really should give him a chance. Talk. Work it out. It's an understanding, and it's terrible, but I think if the two of you keep level heads,” she said the last two words slowly, putting punctuation on them. “Then I think you can make amends, and things can continue on the sweet, wonderful little road that they were following. Don't you think so?”

“You're nosy. That's what I think,” Fitz said, but he did pick up his phone, thumbing to the voicemail button and hitting it. “But you mean well.”

“I do, and that's why you should always listen to me.”

Leo made a face, typing in his voicemail inbox's passcode. “Yeah... Maybe not  _ always _ .”

She kicked him under the table. Not hard, but enough to get her point across. “That's very rude.”

“You should expect that from me, by now.” He pointed out, and then fell silent, listening to Grant's messages.

He wasn't the type to leave a message every time his call rang through to someone's inbox, and Fitz kind of loved that about him, though he wasn't saying that out loud any time soon. It would have been obnoxious if he'd opened his voicemail to ten messages, all saying some variation of the same thing. Instead, he had four messages, all saying some variation of the same thing, but all with a different twist.

Mostly, it was that he was sorry, and that he hadn't meant to be so heartless. That he understood where Fitz was coming from, and he hoped that Fitz understood his point of view from being an agent. He wasn't begging Fitz to understand, just saying he hoped he did. He hoped they could make this up.

The first message ended on a request that Fitz call him back.

The second ended with a reminder that they still had a lot of Chinese food to finish off.

The third ended on the fact that they had only gotten one movie off the list they had accumulated before the argument.

The fourth message simply finished with “I'll stop bothering you with these constant calls, but if you felt up to calling me back, I'd like to try last night again. I promise, this time, I'll keep my temper, and I'll show you the good time I had been meaning to show you before we got into it.”

Fitz set his phone down on the table, waiting a second before groaning. “I want to stay mad at him.”

“But?”

“But I know we both lost our tempers, and we said things we shouldn't have.”

“And?”

Fitz gave Jemma a flat look. “I still have feelings for him.”

“Obviously,” she said, hand-waving that. “And?”

He continued to stare at her for a second, before sighing and looking back down at his phone. “And I really want to put this behind us.”

“So?” She pushed the phone towards him, bumping it into his forearm. “Call him back.”

 

 

 

The Charger was waiting for him when he got off the elevator and left through the lobby. Grant sat behind the wheel, looking, while not exactly at ease, at least a bit more comfortable than Fitz had last seen him. Opening the passenger side door, he tucked his shoulder bag – still packed since last night – into the foot well, and slid into the seat, shutting the door behind him.

Grant smiled, small and hesitant. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He greeted, looking at him, and then down at his hands. “Um, listen, I'm--”

“--I'm sorry.” Grant cut him off, prompting him to look over. The older man reached past him and tugging on his seatbelt. “Buckle up. I shouldn't sit here for much longer. I'll take the long way, and we can talk about this?”

Fitz did as he was told, settling into his seat while Grant pulled the car out on to the street. “I think we've both already said I'm sorry enough, don't you?” He asked.

Grant laughed softly, and shook his head. “Yes. And no. I said things I shouldn't have. I accused you of not knowing better than to ask the questions you were asking, and trying to force some answer out of me. Of course you were going to ask those things. I shouldn't have said what I did.”

“But I shouldn't have pushed you to tell me what your thoughts were, either.” Fitz allowed. “You have a unique position, because you work for the agency, and of course you have to see it differently than I do. I shouldn't have treated you like you were wrong.”

“I might not have been entirely truthful, though.” Ward said, glancing over at Fitz for a second. “Yeah, there's part of me that thinks maybe your friend did it, but there's part of me that thinks he didn't. It's complicated, and because I'm not assigned to the case, it's easier for me to have those doubts. But, last night, all I told you was the first part, and then I treated the whole thing really badly, because I got stuck on facts about what types of people do the things that we're considering Lance to have done.” He took a breath. “You can let me know at any time if you want me to turn the car around.”

Leo smiled, and reached over to squeeze Grant's forearm. “No. I think I'm done with the theatrics for the next month. And I get what you're saying. I shouldn't have kept pushing you to come up with an answer that aligned to mine, either. Of course there has to be some evidence that points to Lance, or the agency wouldn't be investigating him in the first place. It was stupid of me to expect that---”

“--It wasn't stupid. Please don't say that, and discount what you're trusting to be the truth.”

Fitz nodded slowly, making sure that Ward saw that when he glanced over. “It was misguided of me to expect that you were going to absolutely agree with the story I was selling, when you're in a position where you're seeing all the angles.”

They drove in silence for a couple minutes, Ward seeming to operate the vehicle while he was miles away, going over what Fitz had said. “We both kind of screwed up, didn't we?”

Fitz shrugged. “It happens, right?”

“It does,” he agreed, pulling to a stop behind a minivan at a light. “Isn't there a saying that goes something like 'all couples fight'?”

Leo smirked. “You think we're a couple?”

“I kind of hoped we were a couple.” Grant explained, looking over.

Reaching his hand across the center console again, Fitz laid his hand on Grant's knee. Somewhere safe, that wasn't going to have either of them raising eyebrows, and certainly wouldn't have any police officers saying that Grant was a distracted driver. Hopefully. “I kind of like that you hoped that, because I did, too.”

Ward grinned. “You forgive me?”

Fitz rolled his eyes, doing his best to look put-upon. “I  _ suppose _ . Do you forgive me?”

“I did before you even walked out last night.”

He laughed, having the sense of mind to at least feel a little shamed for that. “Was a bit dramatic, huh?”

“Uh, I think our entire argument was a bit dramatic.” Grant smiled. “But you're absolutely forgiven. And thank you, Leo.”

A horn sounded behind them, and they both jumped, Ward focusing on the road ahead, moving the Charger forward into the traffic again. They were quiet until the car came to another stop, Leo having tucked his hands back into his personal space. Once the Charger came to a stop, though, and they met each other's eyes once more, they burst out in laughs.

“Our relationship discussion is delaying other drivers.” Ward said, glancing back briefly. “At least that guy turned at the last cross street. He really laid on the horn. I thought he was gonna come after me next time we stopped.”

“I'd protect you,” Fitz said, then nudged Grant's elbow. “Hey. You called me Leo.”

Grant looked back at him, a mixture of guilt and glee on his face, before looking back at the traffic, just in time to move forward with it. “I did, didn't I? Is that... okay?”

“It's _very_ okay.” Leo answered.

The rest of the trip to Grant's apartment passed in happy silence. Once they were packed into the elevator, though, Leo couldn't help himself.

“Come here,” he muttered, low, despite the fact that they were alone in the elevator. He reached up with both hands, drawing Grant down in a kiss that was slow, deep, and said, as his words had, that Grant was forgiven for his part in their fight. The hands that slid over his hip and around the small of his back assured Leo that the same was true for him.

Once again, the elevator interrupted with a soft  _ ding _ , and they were let off on Grant's floor. Grant took Leo's hand in his, leading him down the hallway until they reached his apartment, and he let them in. Like the night before, Leo made himself at home, heading straight to the fridge to start getting out the Chinese leftovers.

“Come on,” he said, looking over to where Grant was watching him, apparently dumbfounded. “We need to make some kind of dent in that list of movies, and I'm starving.”

Four hours later, the Chinese food was nothing but a faint memory, and the third movie on their list was playing on the TV. Not that either of them where paying attention. Leo knew that the film had to be in the middle of or at least reaching its climax, but considering that Grant wasn't redirecting his attention toward it, he figured the other didn't think it was more important than what they were doing.

He wasn't entirely sure when in the movie they had stopped paying attention, either, but he was very sure that it had been around the time that Grant had shifted under him. They'd moved closer as the movies had gone on, and eventually laid out on the couch, Leo sprawling between Grant's legs, settled against his chest, cheek resting on his shoulder while they watched the screen. His fingers had wandered, aimless, up and down the curves of Grant's arms, and over the spread of his chest, mimicking the trails of Grant's hands up and down his back, fingers sliding along his spine. The whole thing was calm, and sweet, and innocent, but had quickly turned anything but the latter when Grant had tilted Leo's chin up and kissed him.

That kiss had woken something in him. Something that had taken root when he'd tossed the condoms in his overnight bag the night before, and was only urged on by the way Grant's hands spread against his ass, pressing him in closer, as he leaned up to dominate the kiss from the other. There was no mistaking the telltale line in Grant's jeans, and Leo knew that he had a matching press in his own. Their mouths parted as Grant laughed, soft, and whispered, “Interested?”

Then he rolled his hips up.

The friction of it made electricity and fire spiral up Leo's spine, and he groaned, nodding almost frantically, before kissing Grant again. “Only a lot.”

Grant pulled away, his mouth trailing kisses over Leo's jaw, teeth tugging at his earlobe. “You mean it?”

Leo snorted, and rolled his hips down into Grant's, and again after he got a pleased gasp from him. Even through denim, it was intoxicating. The obvious interest that they both had in where this was going was making his head swim, a little, and Grant grabbing his hips and stopping him from rolling them a third time only made his smile wider.

“Take it that means 'yes',” he said, before kissing Leo again. His hands moved, manhandling them until they were sitting up, and then Leo was being forced to his feet, not willing to give up kissing Grant just yet. Even if it meant that they were kissing less than they were laughing against each other's mouths while Grant stood up to his full height, Leo's hands sliding from his hair to his jaw to his shoulders.

“It definitely means yes,” he confirmed, before moving, taking a step back towards Grant's room. The other's hair was tousled from his fingers in it, lips kiss-swollen and red, cheeks tinged the same colour. His shirt was rumbled, and Leo was feeling uncomfortable enough in his own jeans; he could only imagine how Grant felt, Another step back, and Grant was moving towards him, nodding without saying a word.

They didn't exactly enter the bedroom gracefully, but Leo wasn't torn up about that. He turned immediately to pull Grant into another kiss, fingers already working on the buttons of his own shirt. He silently congratulated himself on foregoing the tie, tonight. It may have made things a touch more difficult than they already were. And they became more difficult when Grant's hands found his jeans, popping the button and undoing the fly with ease, while he continued to fumble with his shirt buttons.

It might have gone simpler if they had separated for more than a few seconds at a time, but there was no way Leo was letting that happen.

He finally backed off once he had his shirt undone, and Grant's jeans. Grant had pulled his shirt over his head, and was kicking his jeans off. Leo had already shimmied out of his. Left in only his boxers, he took the chance to glance around the room, trying to figure out where...

“Top drawer, other side.” Grant said, voice rough. He stepped out of his jeans, and came forward. Leo dropped onto the bed, moving back and stretching to reach the drawer, tugging it open and pulling out a foil square and a small bottle of lube. The bed dipped and he looked up again to see Grant standing at the edge of the bed, one leg resting against the edge, watching Leo stretch for the condom and lube, looking strangely contemplative.

“You're good?” he asked, and Leo nodded, sitting up. He set the condom and bottle at his side and reached up, fingers beckoning Ward down for a kiss, open-mouthed and quick.

“Very good. I want this.” Another kiss. “Want you. I have for a while, in case you missed that bit.”

Grant smiled. “Then I hope I don't disappoint.”

His fingers looped in the waistband of Leo's boxers, and he waited a second, getting the nod, and Leo's raised hips, before he pulled them off, careful and slow. It was something to fight the urge to cover up; Grant wasn't exactly an average looking guy, especially with his clothes off. Leo had known that already, but it was something else to behold when they were both naked, and about to, well, get down and dirty. It was normal to feel some kind of self-conscious prickles, but it was so hard to mind them when Grant was looking at him like he was now. Like he didn't know where to start, and he wanted to start everywhere. It definitely made Leo feel a little  _ more _ , in the face of Grant's carefully maintained physique and God-given good looks.

“You really _are_ interested,” Grant muttered, catching his eye and smirking. Then he gestured, getting Leo to move further up the bed before he climbed on, and shifted until he was beside and over Leo.

Then his fingers wrapped around Leo's cock, stroking up from base to tip.

It was an unexpected touch that was still expected, but, even so, Leo found himself sucking in a breath and closing his eyes, fingers curling in the bed sheet. Grant's hand moved back down, and up again, slow, so deliberate, and Leo could feel his eyes on his face, could just imagine the smirk on his lips.

When he did open his eyes, though, it wasn't a smirk he saw, but an expression so full of want that he couldn't hold back a quiet moan, reaching for Grant with one hand. They kissed again, Leo not bothering to keep quiet, or stop himself from making soft sounds as they did. Grant's thumb dragged over the head of his cock, and he mewled, needy, fingernails digging into Grant's skin.

Then he thought of a better use for his hands, and reached for Grant's boxers. He didn't stop him, and shifted to help Leo move them out of the way, and then again to get them off completely. Leo didn't waste time staring, or thinking about how, very soon, if he had his way, Grant was going to be inside him. He mimicked Grant, fingers curling around hot flesh, and sliding up to the tip, lazy grin spreading across his face. Grant was distracted by his touch, floundering in their kiss while Leo did his damnedest to match the movements of their hands.

“Back here,” Leo murmured, lifting his head to catch Grant's lips again. They kissed harder, sloppier, both urged on by the other's teases, until Grant let him go. Leo whined, tightening his grip only slightly as he stroked his hand back down Grant's cock. “You better be stopping because you're going to fuck me.”

Grant raised his eyebrows, grinning and raising the bottle of lube in his hand.

“Well, yeah, but I kind of like how demanding you are in bed.”

Leo rolled his eyes, and let Grant go so he could move, shifting to lay flat on his back with his legs bent, feet brushed against Grant's legs. “I'm impatient.”

“Only a little longer.” Grant promised, coating his fingers. He didn't need to give any direction. Leo knew what came next, and moved, pulling his legs up higher to make it easier for Grant to push one finger, and then another, inside him, pressing them in and out, curling them inside, spreading them. Preparing him, gentle, but not slow, while he pressed a kiss to Leo's knee and watched his face. Another finger pushed inside and Leo groaned, tipping his head back, riding out the burn with careful breaths.

It was a few minutes of that before Grant pulled away and Leo heard rather than saw the foil being ripped off the condom. He sat up, maybe too fast for the state he'd just been in, with the way his head swam, and grabbed Grant's wrist. Wordlessly, he took the condom from him, leaning forward enough to roll it up over Grant's cock himself. It was an unnecessary thing for him to have done, but he felt it was important. After Grant had carefully made sure he was open enough not to be hurt, the least he could do was roll the condom on. And then pour lube into his palm, slicking Grant up with slow, careful rolls of his hand.

It was his turn to reach up and draw Grant in with fingers on his chin, kissing him lightly, making him chase his lips as he laid back down.

The room was quiet, except for their breaths, and the shifting of their bodies on the sheets as Grant moved closer, tugged him in, and guided his legs around his waist. Leo could feel the blunt press of his cock against his ass, pushing at his hole.

He took a slow, careful breath, and nodded.

The first push was pain. Slow as Grant was, he couldn't help that. Leo breathed in and out, closing his eyes and willing his body to relax. Grant was being so gentle, and careful, but his slow speed wasn't helping much, and Leo whispered, “quickly,” urging him to drive in. Once he had, they both stilled, Grant giving Leo the second his body needed, even if he wasn't keen to take it, kisses pressed to his cheek and temple, lingering and sweet.

After a minute, Leo nodded, reaching up, the fingers of one hand tangling in Grant's hair, legs tightening around his waist. “Please.”

Grant didn't hesitate. Didn't ask 'are you sure?' He moved, setting into a rhythm quickly, Leo tensing under him, eyes closed and grinning.

“Yes. Like this.” He whispered, loosening his grip on the other to give him room. Let Grant pull back a little and change angles. Every movement brought a new sensation; had him tightening his legs, or whining, back arching. Grant's hands found his, pinning one to the pillow while his mouth left hot, open-mouthed kisses down his throat, and Leo groaned his name, legs tightening, pushing down against him harder. “Faster.”

That was the right order. The angle they were at felt so good, and the change in Grant's speed ripped a broken off cry from Leo's throat.

“ _Oh_ ,” Grant panted, his hot breath making goosebumps rise along Leo's skin. “Like that?”

“Mm,” Leo tipped his head back against the pillows. “Please.”

What he hadn't expected was to be hauled up from the bed, settling into Grant's lap, hands on his shoulders, mouth falling open in a soft groan. Grant was so deep inside him, and still moving, still rocking up into him, and it was all he could do to scramble back to himself and remember to rock down, meeting his thrusts.

_ This _ felt good. The perfect angle, pushing pleasurable shocks through his system with every movement they made, consistent, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

Grant face was buried in his neck, hot breath ghosting against his skin, fingers digging into his hips. Leo was unsure if he was guiding his own movements, or if Grant was pulling him down onto his dick every time he rocked up. He had one arm slung around Grant's shoulders, face against his hair, eyes closed, quiet sounds escaping him on every exhale.

He wasn't going to last long, not like this. Not with Grant inside him, not with Grant holding him up, not with Grant growling, “Fuck, not gonna last.”

“Lay me down,” he gasped. “Fuck me.”

Grant didn't need to be told twice. Leo was on his back, quick, arching against the bed with the change of angle. The perfect change of angle, making his legs tighten, and his head spin. “Yes, Grant, please.” He was moving faster, harder, holding himself up on his arms over Leo, watching his face. It was hard to focus, through the haze of pleasure, but Leo knew he was watching. Saw the way Leo reached to curl a hand around himself, stroking his cock, trying to match Grant's movements.

He was so  _ close _ .

“Come, Leo,” Grant breathed, his voice edged with tension. Barely holding on himself.

And how was Leo supposed to argue with that request?

He came with a shout, body going taut, free hand wrapping around Grant's wrist, making a mess of their stomachs. The pleasure washed over him, threatening to take him down, threatening to pull him right under, and he would have gladly gone.

But he needed Grant to come with him.

“Come on, Grant,” he urged, breathless, shuddering from his orgasm. “Let go.”

There was something about Grant's groan of release, the way his hips stuttered, and he tightened up all over before he came, that made Leo sure he could come again. Grant collapsed against him, shivering, rocking through his orgasm. Leo wrapped his arms around his shoulders, kissing every inch of skin he could, whispering little encouragements until Grant stilled and became a weight above him, fighting to catch his breath.

“God...” Leo hummed, running his hands down Grant's back, shivering still. “ _Yes._ ”

Grant chuckled. “Good?”

Another hum. “Wouldn't you say so?”

Grant lifted himself up on his elbows, looking down at Leo. They studied each other for a moment before he broke into a smile and leaned down for a kiss.

“ _Very_ good.” He agreed, finally.

“Knew you'd see it my way.” Leo said, and then lifted his head for another kiss.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hartley Contracting meets up to discuss Lance's notably serious problems, and Jemma and Skye share some time together.

Idaho was laughing.

It was a really jarring sound to be exposed to, considering everything that had gone on in the last few weeks, and Lance was going to punch him if he didn't stop. He considered making that notion known, but then he considered how it might look bad for his case. Not that he thought anyone gathered in the room would go running to the feds about what he said or did, but he couldn't be too careful, nowadays.

This entire situation was turning him into a very paranoid individual. It wasn't pleasant.

“Stop laughing, Idaho.”

Lance could have kissed Izzy.

Idaho stopped laughing immediately, and shrugged. “Listen, I'm sorry, but Hunter just spewed some speech about how this is 'neutral ground' and how he hopes that we can all walk away from here still friends, like we aren't currently  _ still friends _ and like we need neutral ground to discuss this on.” He waved at the apartment around him. “Like, what Mack's apartment is international waters now, or something?”

“You're confusing the concept he is implicating with international waters and neutral ground, Idaho.” Victoria said, from her spot on the couch next to Izzy. Mack was sitting in the arm chair, Idaho on the other end of the couch, and Lance was perched on the edge of the end-table that he'd dragged into the middle of the room after ridding it of its lamp and coaster.

“Either way,” Idaho said, in defense of his point, whatever it was. “Lance is being way too dramatic about this. He's acting like you two think he's guilty of trying to kill ya by pushing you in the pit. Which... like... Ya don't.” Idaho squinted at them both. “Right?”

Izzy and Tori stayed silent for a moment, looking at each other, and then at Lance. He didn't like those looks. They made him edgy. Made him wonder if Idaho's complete belief that the two of them didn't suspect him in the least was a little bit off. The guy couldn't be right about everything, and even Lance had to admit that, without someone to confirm that he'd had nothing to do with the incident, it was hard to believe he might not have been involved.

Considering he had been there when it had happened.

Finally Tori broke the silence with a definitive, “No.” And Lance let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “Lance Hunter is many things, but he's not a murderer.”

“Exactly.” Mack said. “But the issue is, if he isn't, who is?”

The room fell silent again at his question. It was the obvious one. They all appeared to believe that Lance hadn't been the one to have committed the attack on Izzy and Tori. If that was the case, then who the hell did they look at as their perp? None of them, apparently.

“Someone who wanted one or both of us out of the picture. Could have been one of the companies we beat to win that contract, but I doubt it.” Izzy mused. “They're all too lazy to try something like that.”

“Maybe they took a hit out on ya?” Idaho tried. “And since we're in that sandbox anyway, could it be someone that Tori's helped put away?”

“I very much doubt that.” Victoria answered with a sigh. “Most everyone who I've put away who could think on vengeance like this is still behind bars. It shortens the list considerably.”

“What if it's someone after Tori's job?” Mack asked, quietly.

The room fell silent again.

The original theory, and obviously the one that the FBI was looking at, had been that someone had been trying to knock off Izzy in order to inherit the company, that someone being Lance. Getting Izzy out of the way to take her business, and income. It was, obviously, a plausible thought, but clearly not true, unless one of the other guys on the crew had done it. Since no one but Lance served to benefit from knocking Izzy off the top spot, though, that seemed unlikely.

None of them had even considered the possibility, though, that it could be that Victoria Hand, Head of Violent Crimes, was the intended target.

It seemed strange that the FBI hadn't either.

“So, wait, someone could be after Tori's job?” Idaho said. “Trying to off her so that they get promoted into the big shoes?”

“It's not impossible.” Izzy said. “She is in a very important position that comes with a truckload of respect and a salary to match.”

“The issue there, though,” Tori interjected. “Is that it opens the floor to a lot more possibilities for suspects. It could be anyone in my department or without who doesn't hold an equal or higher position. That is a lot of people, and I don't know that we could narrow them down for motive. I could compile a shortlist, I'm sure, but there is always the danger that the shortlist could be missing someone who could actually be behind all this.”She frowned softly. “It also doesn't help that we are sitting in a situation where a good chunk of the evidence points to Lance. The only place where there is sizable doubt lies with Izzy and myself. We cannot confirm that it was Lance, no, but we cannot deny it either. We were in a state of surprise, which can work against us in saying that it wasn't Lance. How can we know for sure it wasn't, if we say that we didn't get a clear view of the person who attacked us?”

“It almost seems like the evidence is too clear cut.” Izzy mused, shifting on the couch to get into a more comfortable position. Tori moved beside her, and Idaho drew into himself, making room for the two women.

“It's almost like someone is trying to use Lance as their convenient and stupid scapegoat.” Mack pointed out.

“Hey!” Lance said, though he didn't have much power behind it. The issue was that he understood what Mack was saying. Now that it was being put out in the open, it seemed all the more likely that Mack was on to something with what he was saying. He hadn't done it, but he had stupidly gone to the work site alone that night, and no one could confirm what he was doing, but the guards could confirm when he arrived and when he departed. “I mean, I could have walked right into it, I guess, but that wasn't my intention.”

“No one ever intends to get framed.” Izzy pointed out. “If that's what Mack's saying.”

Mack nodded. “That is what I'm saying.” He started ticking things off on his fingers. “Neither of you can confirm or deny it was Lance, Lance is in the position where he  _ could  _ benefit from Izzy dying, no other suspects have come up.” He looked around the room at all of them. “The feds are coming up with more and more reasons to suspect Lance but no one has made a true arrest, and the feds in charge of the investigation don't seem keen to blame anyone but Lance.” Mack frowned, and spread his hands. “I love Bobbi, but I don't think she's seeing all the angles right now, because, I tell you, from where I'm sitting?”

Izzy and Tori nodded, and Idaho snapped his fingers, pointing at Mack.

Lance shook his head.

“I'm being framed.”

 

 

 

“Oh my god,” Skye breathed, reaching up to squeeze the pillow under her head in her hands. “Oh my god, _fuck_.”

Jemma pulled away, grinning, giggling softly, and Skye groaned.

Jemma Simmons had no right looking like that while she was going down on Skye.

She couldn't have explained how they'd gotten here, only that one thing had led to another, and one second they had been laying in Skye's bed, palms pressed against each other, and now she was down to her shirt and bra only, legs spread, settled back against the pillows while Jemma laid on her stomach and did deliciously wonderful things with her tongue, face buried between Skye's legs.

Maybe they were moving this too far, but, well,  _ fuck it _ . They knew each other very well, they didn't need to take time with things, if they didn't want to.

And Skye really didn't want this to end any time soon.

Of course, at the same time, she did, because that was arguably the best part, but that was beside the point.

“I like that I can tell how much you're enjoying yourself,” Jemma said, raising a hand to wipe her mouth. “You're very vocal.”

“I wouldn't be if we weren't alone.”

Jemma smiled. “Then let's see what other noises I can get out of you.”

Skye tensed in anticipation, and whined behind clenched teeth as Jemma dragged her tongue against her, slow and teasing. Fingers spread her gently, and the tip of Jemma's tongue curled against her clit, tantalizing pressure that had Skye's fingers twisting the pillow.

“That feels so good,” she breathed, descending into another whine.

Jemma was very, very good at this. She knew exactly what to do with her tongue, flicking it back and forth against Skye's clit until she was tensing, and then Jemma stopped, dragging her tongue against places where it felt good, but didn't make Skye feel like she was about to explode. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her breaths were coming quick, and she felt on the verge of coming, but like she may never get to come, if Jemma had her way.

“So glad it does, love.” Jemma breathed, kissing her thigh. There was a push, and a slight pressure, and Jemma whispered, “Is this okay?”

Anything she wanted to do was okay, in Skye's mind. She nodded, and sucked in a breath through her teeth, feeling Jemma slide a finger inside her, curling it and sliding it in and out slow, while she kissed Skye's thighs and tummy.

“You're going to make my head explode.” Skye gasped, pushing her hips down.

Jemma pressed her thumb to Skye's clit, rubbing slightly while her fingers continued to move in and out. Skye's breath caught in her throat.

“I probably shouldn't let that happen...” Jemma mused.

There was something about kind, sweet Jemma Simmons being  _ this way  _ in bed that made Skye's head spin.

They weren't kidding when they said it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for.

“Please?”

Jemma took pity on her, and she moved back again, warm mouth teasing at Skye's clit, tongue moving against her quickly, fingers moving slowly, a strange, intoxicating mixture that had Skye's back arching.

“Jemma. _Jemma_. Jem! I'm... holy _fuck_ , please. Please, please, please.”

Her whole body tensed, boiled down to the point where Jemma's mouth was working her over, pushing her, pushing her, until she broke with a shout, squirming on the bed, caught by Jemma's hands. The fingers inside her were gone, but Jemma's mouth was relentless, working against her until she was whimpering and pushing gently at Jemma's head. Only then did Jemma pull away, licking her lips and looking all too satisfied with herself.

If that was how Jemma looked, Skye could only imagine what her own appearance was.

Reaching up with both hands, she pushed her hair back, fighting to catch her breath. She had to.

She needed to return the favour.

“That,” Jemma started, moving up the bed. “Was very, _very_ fun.” She dropped at Skye's side, kissing her shoulder, and brushing her fingertips over the other's belly lightly. “You all right?”

Skye nodded. “I am. Much better than all right.” She swallowed, and shifting on the bed, rolling to face Jemma. “What about you?”

Jemma didn't meet her eyes. After what she had just done, Skye couldn't believe the other girl was pulling the shy act. Carefully, as slowly as she could manage, she trailed her fingers up the seam of Jemma's legs, coaxing her to part them. She reached between, her fingers searching out the hot wetness she knew would be there, and she gasped when her fingers slipped. Jemma jolted under her touch.

Clearly sensitive.

“Can I take care of you?” Skye asked, sliding her fingers further back, gentle against Jemma's sensitive nerves. The other girl nodded, and Skye shifted, coaxing her on to her back.

There would be no taking time with this, Skye thought. She'd been waiting for far too long, and Jemma was far, far too keyed up. She wouldn't last long, even if she fought to do it.

Best to overwhelm her before she was overwhelmed, then.

Leaning forward, Skye pressed her lips against Jemma's jaw, and then trailed kisses in a slow line down her neck. Between Jemma's legs, she stroked her fingers slow and light, dragging the pads of her fingers over Jemma's clit before pulling away.

Jemma was already trembling under her, one hand fisted in her hair. Not painfully, but insistent.

Skye continued her downward movement, mouth trailing kisses over Jemma's collarbone, and over the swells of her breasts. She risked pushing a finger inside Jemma, humming when the other made a small noise and whispered 'yes'. Finger moving slowly, Skye's tongue traced circles around Jemma's nipples, dragging over them slow, eyes on the other's face. Jemma closed her eyes with a whine.

Too much?

She was shaking with the effort of holding on as Skye continued downwards, laying a trail of kisses from her sternum to her belly button.

Then she shimmied back, spreading Jemma's legs and looking up with the unspoken question.

Jemma looked back down and her and nodded, lower lip trapped between her teeth.

That was the only encouragement Skye needed to bury her face in Jemma's pussy, moaning against her when Jemma moaned and tipped her head back on the pillow. That moan made Jemma jolt.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” she breathed, reaching down to tangle her fingers in Skye's hair again. “Skye, please.”

Skye had never had good impulse control. Being between Jemma's legs, it was even harder to try and have any, especially when she was making such desperate little noises, all but begging Skye.

She didn't tease for much longer before sealing her mouth over Jemma's clit, and moving her tongue against it, watching while Jemma arched higher and higher before collapsing against the bed with a shout, clapping a hand over her mouth, the other hand twisting in Skye hair. Skye groaned against Jemma, and she whimpered again, tugging Skye's hair once more before stroking it apologetically.

“Sorry, sorry,” she gasped when Skye pulled away. Her eyes were closed and she was boneless on the bed, hands reaching up to push through her own hair. “I shouldn't have pulled, I... My _god_ , Skye, how did you... That was...”

Skye grinned. “Good?”

“Very.” Jemma agreed immediately. “Very, very... _very_ good.”

“Happy to please.” Skye said, feeling rather smug as she dropped onto her back beside Jemma. “Tell me something?”

“Mm?” Jemma asked, still not opening her eyes.

“Why didn't we do that long before now?”

Jemma laughed, a weak sounding thing. “Because the best things in life are always worth waiting for?” she suggested.

“I like that answer.” Skye said.

They laid in silence for a few minutes, both catching their breath, waiting for their heart rates to slow down to a normal pace. It felt strangely right, to be laying next to Jemma, humming all over from her orgasm, and from giving Jemma one in return, chasing her breath and trying to calm her heart. Both of them occasionally making soft little pleased noises.

When the silence broke this time, it was Jemma who did it. “Your roommates aren't home, right?”

Skye frowned, cracking open an eye and turning her head to look at Jemma. “No.” She drew the word out. “Why?”

“Because I would very much fancy a shower, and I'd like you to join me, and I don't quite feel like putting on clothes right yet, so it would be very nice if we could go to your bathroom, sans clothes, and have a nice shower, sans roommates knowing about it.”

Skye laughed, and pulled herself into a sitting position. “I like the way you think. Come on. Let's have a shower.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One misstep brings the culprit in the attempt on Izzy and Tori's lives to light, but that misstep comes at a price.

John Garrett's office was some strange middle ground between a mess, and being orderly. It didn't matter who you asked, no one would ever be able to say whether it was one or the other. Garrett claimed it was the product of year's worth of being in the agency. He had learned where the line was between too clean and too messy, and he toed it very well. It also helped that, for him, his entire system of filing, organizing and categorizing was worked into the way he laid out and kept his office. It made it extremely easy for Garrett to walk into his office and immediately find the signed copy of a witness' report, but it was a task for anyone else to do the same.

Ward suspected that he was one of the few exceptions to that rule. Given that Garrett had actually done most of his training, he liked to think he knew how the guy worked. They had grown apart, as Grant had grown with the agency, but it didn't mean that he had forgotten how to walk into Garrett's office – with permission, of course – and find what he was looking for.

In this particular instance, Garrett had a confession from a witness who might have been privy to their home invader as well. Grant wanted to get his hands on the hard copy, just to see if the account of that event held any clues for what it was he and Trip were looking for.

The only issue was that Grant hadn't gone to the trouble of asking which drawer of Garrett's desk the hard copy was in, exactly. Garrett's system made sense, but at the same time, there was a bit of madness in his method, and sometimes it was difficult to work out the brand of madness at play. Particularly when one hadn't taken the time to fully prepare to try and work out the inner workings of John Garrett's mind. It was that issue that left Ward standing in Garrett's office, staring at the desk, eyes flicking from one locked drawer to another, trying to decide whether John had felt the hard copy warranted more merit on the left or right side.

Then again, he did know the combinations to both locked drawers. It was the upside of having worked under Garrett for so long. He could easily fill in for the senior agent if there was any need for him to do so.

Ward pulled out the desk chair, dropping into it with a sigh. Might as well just check both drawers and get it over with. It seemed like the most expedient way to get the case moving forward, rather than his standing around wondering 'What would John Garrett do?'

Rolling up to the desk, he turned to the drawer on the right first, punching in the number code – a sequence that made no sense to Garrett's bio, and thus, was probably very safe – and pulling the drawer open. Inside, hanging file folders bumped against each other, sliding on the rungs they were hinged to. Ward frowned, and started flicking through. There was no shortage of files in the drawer, but a quick look through the first dozen showed them to be cases that were all wrapped up, and awaiting trial. Finished files, then. The account that he was looking for wouldn't be likely to be in this drawer then.

Closing the folder he'd pulled out, Grant slipped it back in amongst its fellows. He'd been careful to keep the folders before and after it pushed aside to create a large gap. It wouldn't do him any good if he messed up the files on Garrett. The man might have a method to his madness that was difficult for others to discern immediately, but he lived by it. Grant would be in for an earful if he messed up his former supervisor's filing system. Once the folder was back in place, he pushed the folders on either side of it back into place.

At least, he attempted to. The folders behind it were being difficult, not moving forward, as though they were caught on the bottom.

“'Course I knocked something out of place.” Ward muttered to himself. More than likely he hadn't been as careful as he'd hoped when he was moving the folders, and one had unhooked and fallen down in between the others. It happened enough with the file folders hanging in his own desk, he had no illusions that it could and would happen in Garrett's, even if the senior agent seemed to have an all round better set-up than he himself could ever hope to achieve. They all used the same flimsy hanging folders from the local Staples, anyway.

Moving each folder along the rung carefully, Grant watched to see where the one he'd knocked down would be. As long as he didn't jerk them around, he'd probably be able to find it in the exact spot it belonged, and hang it back up without getting Garrett's system out of order. After sliding forward five folders, though, what he found wasn't a folder that had disconnected. What he found was a manila envelope, the kind that was sealed with string, with a telltale bulge in it that could only be a disposable cell phone that could be bought at a drugstore.

Ward frowned, pulling the envelope loose. Something concrete like that, an actual object, were it evidence, didn't belong in Garrett's desk. The man was brilliant, Grant knew that, but he was also brilliant enough to know that having concrete, physical evidence for a case hidden, or forgotten, in his desk was against protocol.

Worse than that, the envelope wasn't even marked with what case it could or should be.

The whole thing was setting Ward on edge.

With a careful glance over his shoulder to make sure no one had joined him in the office, he laid the envelope on the desk. It wasn't right of him to go snooping through Garrett's desk, and that hadn't been his intention. John had even him permission to go retrieve the hard copy of the witness account so that he and Trip could add it to their growing file for their own case. He hadn't even Grant permission to go riffling through his desk, looking into his private manila envelopes.

The thing was, though, with everything that had happened with Hand, it didn't make sense to let John risk getting a slap on the wrist over anything, especially not something as serious as clearly withholding evidence in his desk. Maybe he'd forgotten it was there. Maybe he'd tucked it away the morning everything had happened with Hand and that case had been assigned to him. Maybe it was intended to go to the evidence lock-up, but with how busy he'd been, Garrett hadn't gotten around to it. Whatever the reason, with a quick glance inside, Grant might be able to figure out which case the evidence belonged to. From there, he could take the phone to lock-up and say he was delivering it on Garrett's behalf. Keep his former supervisor out of trouble, and help him out while he was waist deep in the Hand case.

Tugging open the drawer above the one he'd been busying himself in, Grant pulled out Garrett's box of latex gloves, tugging them on with care before opening the envelope. He wouldn't exactly be helping John if he got his fingerprints all over the phone. Then, he slid the contents of the envelope out onto the desktop, spreading them out carefully.

Something in his gut twisted.

The contents of the envelope included one black Nokia flip phone, two photographs of license plates, a worksite map, and a schedule, along with an address that matched the worksite map, printed on paper with the letterhead of a local security firm.

Grant wasn't sure about one of the license plates, but he was familiar with the other. He saw it almost every day when he pulled the Charger into the lot.

Victoria Hand's.

The other, then, could only belong to Isabelle Hartley.

Considering the worksite that was shown on the map, and the address listed on the security schedule, that seemed the most likely option. It was the security firm who had been hired to supply overnight guards for the site. It was the site where Hartley and Hand had nearly been killed.

It would make sense for John to have this evidence. He was working on the case as the primary, and would need copies of the guard schedule and site map for his investigation. The license plate photos made less sense, but perhaps they had been used to jog the guards' memories. For instance, had they seen a vehicle parked in the area with any license plate besides those two?

But then, why wasn't there an accompanying photo of Lance Hunter's license plate?

And what was the significance of the phone? Had it been found at the site? It didn't look like it could have been left in the dirt for a number of hours. If this was evidence against Hunter, it would be best served not hidden away in a manila envelope in John Garrett's desk.

Ward checked over his shoulder again. Most of the agents had gone home for the night, and there were only a few of them left. John himself wasn't even at the office. He'd gone home a while ago, and had only given Grant permission to go into his desk via a phone call. Trip and Morse weren't at the office, nor May. Hill might be around, but that was only because she was acting command of their division while Hand healed.

No one was in the office, or, it seemed, even in the hallway beyond it, except for him. He still had privacy if he wanted to go through with what he was considering. Just to settle the twisting of his gut and the suspicions screaming through his mind.

Grant turned back to the phone and flipped it open, turning it on and waiting while the colourful Nokia screen cycled through. His leg bounced up and down with nervous energy.

The phone would boot and be nothing but damning evidence against whoever had committed the attack, whether that was Hunter, or anyone else. That was all that would happen. It would settle Grant's mind and he would be able to go about getting the hard copy for the case he and Trip had.

The phone finished loading, and Grant pressed the keys to open the message inbox. What greeted him were messages from numbers he didn't recognise. Classic burner phone. Don't make a contacts list with any kind of names.

He opened the first message.

 

> _Yes. Planning to testify against Hunter._

 

Ward frowned. That seemed a little bit less damning towards the perp than he'd suspected it to be, if the perp was Hunter. He moved on to the next message.

 

> _Will testify and say it was Hunter._

 

Ward's frown deepened.

He opened the next text down.

 

> _My planned testimony is that I admitted Hunter to the site, suspect he had_
> 
> _something to_ _do with what happened to Hand and Hartley._

 

Leaning forward, Ward pulled the guard schedule towards himself. The twisting feeling in his gut was only getting worse. Backing out to the list of messages, he glanced between the small phone screen and the guard list. Their office and cell numbers were listed beside their names. On the page, he found three numbers that matched the three that this phone had received messages from. Messages all agreeing to testify against Hunter. Messages from the guards who had been on shift at the time the attack on Hand and Hartley had occurred.

Messages from those three guards stating that they would willingly testify against Hunter, with Hunter having yet to be formally charged.

Why did Garrett have this phone?

Ward scrolled down further in the list, until he found a number that didn't match the others. He opened it with a growing feeling of dread.

 

> _You're not going to believe this. Buspart just showed. Makes our alibi easier._
> 
> _My 1st gift to you as future head of VC is this idiot scapegoat, R._

 

'Buspart'. Business partner. Lance Hunter. Idiot scapegoat.

Grant swallowed, reaching into his pocket for his own phone. He unlocked it and opened his contacts, scrolling, checking agent by agent to see if the number this message came from matched any of theirs. It didn't.

That didn't make him feel any better.

Backing out of the message, Grant thumbed through to the sent messages, looking for a message sent to the number that had sent the last one. He found one, sent a few minutes after that message would have been received, on the night of the attack.

 

> _This just keeps getting better and better. Let me know how it goes, CB._

 

CB and R. Letters as codenames. It was a clever plan, one that kept names from being brought up, were the phone to fall into the wrong hands. Given that Garrett had kept it hidden in an envelope, tucked between the back folders of his locked drawer in his protected FBI office, it was unlikely that the phone would ever have been found by anyone else. No one really had cause to go snooping through Garrett's desk drawers.

Except for Grant Ward, who had been given permission to go into a desk drawer, but not direction on which desk drawer that was supposed to be. Garrett had slipped up.

The one person who might be able to decipher the codenames had been the one person to actually go riffling through his desk.

CB and R. Letters to signify the codenames the two agents had used once, years and years ago, when they'd both been rookies in the agency, a time and names that probably no one would remember, except for someone who had hung onto his supervisor's every word when he'd arrived from Quantico.

Grant Ward was that someone. He knew what the letters stood for.

Crossbones and Reaper.

Brock Rumlow and John Garrett.

Garrett and Rumlow had worked together in order to get Hand out of the way. Garrett, Ward knew, had always had aspirations to move higher in the agency. The next move he stood to make had been into the position Hand now held. Garrett had been careful not to say anything outright, and he did respect Hand, in his way, but Ward knew that he had issues with having been passed over for the position.

But that was years ago. Why was he moving now? Had he let the sting fester for so long that he was willing to turn to attempted murder to get the current head out of the way?

Grant didn't want to believe it, but the little voice in the back of his head was persistent. There might have been method stemming from it, but there was always a little madness in Garrett. Now, it seemed, that madness had almost resulted in the death of two women, and could still result in the unfair arrest and guilty trial against an innocent man.

The weight of it sat heavy on Ward's shoulders, and for what felt like a very, very long time, he didn't move. His mind was blank, the wheels turning but producing no coherent thought. Everything was turning, over and over in his mind, until it clicked into place with a jolt.

He was up and sliding the papers and phone back into the envelope the second that jolt came through.

Garrett may be his mentor, but this wasn't something that he could just let happen. He resealed the envelope and peeled the gloves off, sliding them into his jeans pocket. Then, he bent down, straightening the hanging folders in the drawer before pushing it shut.

He needed to talk to a senior officer. Preferrably Hill, but if he couldn't find her, Coulson or Sitwell would suffice.

Ward left Garrett's office as untidily clean as he'd found it, and marched back down the hall the way he'd come. Hill's office had to be his first stop, and then Coulson or Sitwell, if she couldn't be found. She was most important on his list, however, of seniors who needed to hear what he'd found. He was nearly to the end of the hall when Sitwell's office door opened and he stepped out, stepping back when he saw Ward coming.

“Ward, where's the fire?” He joked, leaning out again, assured that he wouldn't be bowled over by the taller agent. “You look like a man on a mission.”

Ward hesitated, and then nodded. “I just found some things in Agent Garrett's office. It's...” He shook his head. It was still impossible to believe that Garrett was behind all of this. “It's really damning. I need to talk to Agent Hill.”

Sitwell frowned, the joking manner gone in the space of a second. “Well, what did you find?”

Ward held up the envelope. Sitwell didn't make a grab for it, and that was good. It was best no one else touch it until Hill had seen everything inside. “I think Garrett was working with others in the department to get Hand out of the way so he could move up in the agency.”

Sitwell paled. “Shit.” He leaned on the doorjamb, like he needed its solidity to keep him upright in the wake of it. “I mean, John joked about knocking Vic off. He made really bad sexist jokes and said she only got it ahead of him because we needed eye candy. Wrote it all off as a joke, you know? I thought he was just _joking_.”

Ward nodded. “That's the issue. Apparently he wasn't. Rumlow for sure was helping him out on this. I don't know who else. He has the guards in his back pocket, ready to testify against Hunter. I guess the guy just _showed up_ and made himself an easy scapegoat for them.”

Sitwell rubbed a hand over his face. “Shit. Jesus Christ. Okay, listen. I think Hill's still here. You should take that right to her, right now. Which... Is what you were doing, before I interrupted.”

“It's all right.”

“I'm going to finish up here, and then I'll come join you in her office. Back you up with what I know.”

Ward felt the weight lift off his shoulders a little. Sitwell's backing was important. “Thanks. I'll see you in her office in a few.”

“Yeah, get going.”

With a nod, Ward took off down the hall again, heading for Hill's office.

 

 

 

Sitwell closed his office door, waiting a second before throwing his hands up.

“Fuck!”

What an idiot. John was supposed to have organized this flawlessly, and what did he do? He slipped up by leaving his burner phone in his goddamn desk. The same goddamn desk his former rookie knew how to get into. No, Jasper didn't know why Ward had been snooping around, but that wasn't important. The kid had evidence. Pretty fucking damning evidence, that incriminated Garrett and Rumlow for sure. He might be able to get off scot-free, but he doubted the other two would let him walk if they went down.

They needed to do damage control on this, and fast.

Thankfully, Hill wasn't here anymore. Sitwell had said goodbye to her less than twenty minutes ago. She and Coulson had left at the same time, which meant that he was the only senior agent left on the floor, with the two of them and May gone. Ward would have no where else to go. The kid was a golden boy. He'd want to make sure that the evidence got to the right people. That might mean that he would call Hill and ask her to come back to the office, because he had important information. He wouldn't share it over the phone. He was smarter than that.

That gave Sitwell a few minutes to confer with Garrett before the call was made.

They needed to get on top of this, and they needed to get on top of it _now._

 

 

“Have a good night, guys.” Fitz said, waving to Ian and Darcy as they left. The shop had been quiet, and it was approaching ten at night. Anyone who came in now would be easy to handle. Between himself and Seth, who was in the back of the shop, doing an inventory count, they would be able to handle it.

The night had actually been fairly quiet, all things considered. It might have had something to do with the pouring rain outside. People didn't tend to flock to coffeeshops at night when it was raining. They generally liked to stay indoors in their homes, enjoying the warmth and comfort they provided.

It had been a good night to get some studying done, but his mind kept wandering. Off and back to the night that he and Grant had shared, and how very, very much he wanted to do that again. He couldn't be faulted for letting his mind drift, really. How long had he pined after the man, had him be the star of his unshared dreams? Getting to have sex – careful, overwhelming sex – with Grant Ward had been the culmination of a lot of late night fantasies.

Clearly, it had shown.

The very next day, Darcy had looped her arm through his and demanded he tell her everything. Obviously he hadn't, but apparently he'd had a 'just laid' glow, according to her. Tonight, during shift, she'd brought it up again.

It was absolutely her fault that he was considering texting Grant and asking if he could come over that night.

There were so many things they needed to try.

“Ugh,” He closed his textbook with a dull thump, shaking his head. He was supposed to be working. Since everything was clean and Seth's inventory was a one person count, he should be manning the front and trying to study while he did. Not wondering if he could sweet-talk Grant into handjobs in the shower.

If he wasn't careful, he was going to have to get Seth to come out here and man the cash so that he could duck into the bathroom for a few quick minutes.

That didn't actually sound like such a bad idea. Maybe it would help him get his focus back.

Thankfully, he was saved from having to give in to his libido and ask Seth to come out by the coffeeshop door opening. The tiny bell above it jangled, jolting him out of his considerations. Leo looked up and smiled, sliding his textbook off to the side of the counter, out of view.

Two men had come in, out of the rain. One of them was tall, maybe Grant's height, but built differently. He reminded Leo of someone who got into fights in back alleyways. He also had a good dusting of facial hair across his cheeks, chin and upper lip, the artful kind. The kind made to look like he hadn't shaved for a few days, and his beard just naturally grew that nicely. The other man was probably in his mid to late 50s, with dark slicked back hair. Both were wearing leather jackets, though the older man had paired his with a turtleneck. It made him look like some kind of 90s television show mayor.

“Evening,” Fitz greeted. “What can I get for you, gentlemen?”

The older man grinned, wide. “He's polite.”

Fitz frowned.

The man with him smirked. “'Course he is, he's in customer service.”

Turtleneck hummed. “True, true.” His eyes flicked down to Fitz's nametag. “Fitz, huh? That's your last name, I assume?”

Fitz wasn't getting a good vibe from this at all. He suddenly regretted that his phone was on the back counter, up above the blenders. “Much better than my first name.” He answered, lightly.

“Don't think there's anything wrong with the name Leo,” Streetfighter said. “I mean, bit poncy, but whatever.” He circled away from the counter, heading back towards the door.

They knew his name.

How did they know his name? More importantly, _why_?

“That the only exit, Leo?” Turtleneck asked. Fitz didn't need to look at Streetfighter to know that he was locking it. This was bad. This was getting really bad, really fast. “And is there anyone else in here with you?”

It only took two seconds to make his decision, but it felt like much longer. Stepping back from the counter, Fitz yelled. “Seth! Run! Out the back, go!” He turned on his heel, sprinting for the kitchen doors, hoping having to get around the counter would slow the two men down. He was almost to the swinging doors when someone grabbed him by the back of his shirt, hauling him back, before slamming him into the wall. Streetfighter ran past him, into the kitchen. Behind him, Turtleneck kept him pressed into the wall, one hand pushing on his head, the other fisted in the back of his shirt, forearm pressed against his lower back. One leg pressed between his, making it impossible to twist free without being tripped up.

All he could do was hope that Seth had run.

That hope was dashed when Streetfighter came back. “Kid was too dumb to figure out how to run.” He said. “Clocked him out, he's cuffed to a cupboard.”

“Good.” Turtleneck said, then leaned forward. His weight pushed Fitz harder and tighter against the wall, to the point of pain. “Leo, my name's John. This is Brock. You're going to cooperate and let Brock take you back and cuff you like your friend.”

Brock smiled. It was a terrifying, cold thing. Fitz scowled back at him.

“And then,” John continued. “We're going to call your boyfriend, and make a little trade.”

Those words sunk into Leo like ice, making him easy to manhandle out of the main area of the shop and into the back. Seth was slumped against one of the counters, arm stuck up and cuffed to the handle. Brock shoved him down against an opposite counter, and grabbed his wrist. Through the handle he looped a pair of handcuffs, and locked them, one cuff around each wrist. It didn't leave Fitz in a very comfortable position, but he was fairly sure that was the point.

Once he was secured, Brock stepped off. John had joined them, and had his phone pressed his ear, clearly waiting while it rang. He looked absurdly patient while he stood there, waiting for the other person to pick up, two baristas handcuffed in front of him.

While he waited for Grant to pick up.

God, these men knew Grant.

Who were they? Criminals? Crime lords? Clearly they had something to do with the FBI, since they were specifically singling him out to target Grant. Were they suspects in a case his boyfriend was currently working on?

Leo thought back, to one of their first dates. When Grant had gotten withdrawn, and mentioned that he didn't want his job to interfere with their relationship. He had been adamant that he would be everything in his power to make sure that Fitz never came under stress because of his dating an FBI agent. He had promised that it was very hard for criminals to get to the family and loved ones of agents, and that they looked out for their own.

That was, of course, aside from what had happened to Izzy and Tori.

And, now, aside from this.

Leo didn't blame Grant. He couldn't have stopped this. It wasn't like he had been in the coffeeshop. If he had been, they probably would be safe and sound right now.

“Grant.”

He'd picked up the phone.

Fitz shifted where he sat, pulling himself into more of a sitting position.

“Don't try and play dumb with me, son, I know you know. Yes. That was my mistake, I should have trusted that you would look in the left drawer only. Or that you wouldn't go snooping.” John paused, looking at Fitz while he did. “Yes, Grant, that's all well and very good. But you haven't called Maria yet, have you? No. Good. Because here's the thing. You might have my phone? I have your boyfriend.”

Leo couldn't hear the faint hum of someone else on the other line for a minute. Then he did, again, all in a rush. John grinned, wide. He looked like a shark.

“Yes, Weaver's is a very nice coffeeshop, and I'm sure you want me to leave him out of all this, right? Being such a soft touch and all. Yes. All right, so, here's what's going to happen. Are you listening, Grant?”

Fitz shifted again. He wished he could hear Grant's side of the conversation. He didn't know what was going on, but he was sure of one thing, now. At least one of these men worked alongside Grant at the FBI.

That wasn't good.

“You're going to implicate yourself, using that evidence. You're intelligent, I know you can figure it out. You have motive. You and I have grown apart in the last few years. You were once my star pupil. You'd do anything to get back into my good graces. Including taking my harmless jokes about knocking Vic off quite literally.”

This was about Izzy and Tori.

This was the man who had done it. Not Lance, this man, standing in front of him. And now that he'd been found out, he was turning it around, and telling Grant to implicate himself.

“You just wanted to help me get to where I was meant to be. I know you can pull that story off with the evidence I left laying around, Grant.” Another pause. “Never believe it? You're forgetting that I'm the primary on this case, Grant. I can make sure you don't get Garner for your psych eval. I'll make sure that you end up in Dr. Po's chair for that. He'll write you off as clinically insane if I ask him nicely.”

Leo felt sick. He could feel his dinner churning around in his stomach. Grant had figured out what had happened, and, somehow, John knew. John knew, and he was using him as a bargaining tool to have Grant take the blame. Instead of Lance going to jail, it would be Grant.

“Once I get the call from someone on my investigation team saying you've turned yourself in, I'll let Leo Fitz go. I'd best get that call within the hour, Grant. You'll do this, or I kill your rentboy.”

He pulled his phone away, ending the call, before looking Fitz's way. “Unfortunately, you're going to be getting a bullet either way. I can't risk you singing like a bird once Grant's in custody.”

Regardless, however this ended, Leo was never going to see Grant again.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Garrett's ultimatum, Leo and Grant are left with few choices. Things could go sideways, very fast.

Weeks ago, Grant had made Leo a promise.

He had promised him that, no matter what, he would do everything in his power to make sure that the things that he did as part of the FBI would never touch their relationship. Leo would never have to worry about being targeted by a criminal, about being interrogated by agents, or hounded by reporters. He would never have to be touched by the dark side of what Ward's work entailed. Ward had been ready to do everything he had to, to make that true. It wasn't hard. Raina had been free of the touch of the FBI for years. Audrey, Coulson's wife, was the same. Yes, there was always the worry and concern about their husbands' lives when they went out and did their jobs. But, when it came to direct touch, significant others could always be protected.

Ward hadn't anticipated a touch that would come from inside the FBI itself.

He hadn't been ready to protect Leo against the man who had mentored him when he'd joined the agency. He had never even thought it would be a possibility.

Now, he was standing in the middle of Hill's office, phone to his ear, listening to dead space. Garrett had hung up, after giving his ultimatum. His words still coursed through Ward's veins like ice water. Sitwell had to be in on it, had to have been the one who tipped Garrett off. He still hadn't shown up in Hill's office like he'd promised. He'd probably taken off after giving Garrett a heads up.

And Garrett, mastermind that he was, had come up with a bargaining plan and acted on it in record time.

He was at Weaver's. He had Leo.

He was ready to kill Leo if Grant didn't implicate himself. Throw himself at the feet of justice with a story he'd craft with the evidence he'd found damning Garrett.

Already, his mind was spinning, coming up with options, a story to tell. He would throw himself on the pyre, and Garrett would walk away scot-free.

Maybe that was how it had to be. Grant couldn't risk Leo's life like this. He couldn't allow him to be terrorized simply because he'd fallen into a relationship with a FBI agent. It wasn't fair to him, and Grant had made a promise to protect him from exactly this nature of thing.

It was stupid to think that Garrett would let Leo go.

He'd already proven that he was capable of orchestrating murder against the head of their division. A barista would be nothing to him. It would be such an unfortunate tale. The shamed FBI agent's barista boyfriend found dead on the same night that he confessed to attempting to murder Victoria Hand. Worse, they would probably find a way to pin Leo's death on him. Maybe Leo found out what he'd done, and confronted him about it. In retaliation, he killed him, and the guilt caused him to confess.

Garrett was a master of manipulation. He would be able to create a story that fed nicely into the one Ward created to implicate himself.

Weeks ago, Grant had made a promise to Leo. That he would protect him from whatever it was that the FBI might bring into their relationship.

Maybe laying down and giving up wasn't the way to make sure that promise was kept.

Lifting his phone again, he tapped Trip's name on his contact list, and left Hill's office.

Maybe there was another way to keep his promise.

 

 

“We're running on borrowed time, here, people.”

Ward nodded at Bobbi as he got out of his car. Beside her, Trip was standing, strapping on his bulletproof vest, and next to him, stood Coulson, already dressed in black and strapped in. The manila envelope with the evidence Grant had found was locked in his safe at home, Audrey and the house protected by an old NSA friend Coulson had called in; his neighbour, Mike Peterson.

The four of them were dressed in black from head to toe, parked in the lot across the road and behind the coffeeshop's plaza. The closest safe distance that they could manage. Thirty-five minutes had passed since Grant had spoken to Garrett on the phone. There were only twenty-five left to save Leo's life – and the life of anyone else who had been left in the coffeeshop. Ward suspected there had only been one, maybe two other employees there. If there had been patrons, Garrett would have waited to make his move.

Ward hoped whoever else had been on shift with Leo was still alive.

“From what I can tell,” Trip said in a hushed tone, as the four of them set off across the lot, keeping to the shadows. The pavement was wet and the ground was soft from the rain that had barely stopped before they'd assembled. “They aren't in the main part of the shop. I circled twice and you can't see anyone inside. Has to mean they're in the kitchen.”

Coulson nodded. “Less chance of being seen by passerby. A good place to keep a hostage, out of sight.”

“Which means, going through the back door is our only option.” Bobbi picked up. “Presents an issue...”

“We have to pick that back lock. Can't just kick it in. John knows what a lock being picked sounds like.” Coulson supplied. “I'm going to propose that we split into two. Two go around front, cause a commotion. Distract him. It will keep him from noticing the lock is being picked, hopefully get us the element of surprise. First through the door needs to get shots off. Try not to kill him, we need him to be charged for attempted murder and...” Coulson sighed. “A long list of other things, now that he's gone and done this.”

“I want to go in.” Ward said, firm. They crossed the near empty street and slipped down the slight slope into the parking lot where Weaver's stood.

“I got your back.” Trip offered.

“Guess that means Coulson and I will be the distraction.” Bobbi said. Grant glanced her way and she gave him a reassuring smile. “I always enjoy fucking with someone's head. Especially when they've been having a good time fucking with mine.”

Bobbi had been rightfully pissed, when Grant had called her, on route to the lot. Garrett had been assigned to the case with her, and, now that she thought about it, with all the pieces laid in front of her, it was glaringly obvious what the man had been doing this entire time. He had been handed her ex, Lance Hunter, on a platter, and had been leading the witnesses from the first. He'd been so good at it, that even she had doubted her doubt. Something had felt off, this entire time, and Bobbi hadn't been able to place it, had just known that Lance wasn't guilty, couldn't be guilty.

And she was right, because the guilty party here was the man who had sat next to her on all the interrogations and led Lance, and led the guards – who he'd already put in his back pocket – and led even Izzy and Tori.

Bobbi was rightfully pissed.

 

 

“How much longer does loverboy got?”

Leo glanced over at Brock as he spoke. The guy had made himself at home. Helped himself to coffee and a few pastries out of the dessert case. Currently, he was perched on the edge of the counter to Leo's left, scrolling on his phone.

“Twenty two minutes.” John answered. He flipped the page of the newspaper he'd gotten from the break table.

This was surreal. This whole evening had been something else, from the moment Darcy and Ian had left. Now, he was sitting here, waiting to die. Across from him, Seth was gagged. He had come to only a minute after John had gotten off the phone with Grant. Brock had made quick use of one of the dish towels, tying on a gag, so that he couldn't speak. Couldn't scream. He'd tried, a valiant effort, considering the cloth that had been in his mouth. Leo had spoken for him, begging John and Brock to let him go, that he had nothing to do with it.

He'd gotten a dish towel of his own for his troubles.

That, and the promise that if he made another sound, he would be the reason Seth got an early bullet.

Fitz hadn't made a sound since then. The most sound he had made was when he'd shifted, and pulled the drawer he was cuffed to out slightly. Both men had given him warning looks, and he'd shrugged grandly, before getting into a more comfortable position with the drawer hanging forward.

That presented an option, but what he could do with it, he wasn't sure. The drawers were heavy, and if he had enough force and leverage, he would be able to rip it off the track and out of the counter. Then, at least, he would have a weapon to bludgeon their captors with. It wouldn't be much of a shield against the bullets they had in their guns, though. They could get a shot off at him before he could hope to land a solid hit and knock one or both of them out.

He was one person, and they were two. Seth, being handcuffed to a locked cupboard door, wasn't going to be much help if Leo tried something.

Unless a miracle occurred, they would both be dead in the next half hour.

“He's sure takin' his sweet time setting himself up,” Brock commented. He didn't sound worried. He sounded _bored_.

“Well, Grant's that way. He would want to be sure that there would be no hole anyone could find to prove that he's lying about doing it. He's a soft touch. If they found a hole in his story, he knows I would find Leo here again and finish the job. I don't think he's realized that Leo's dead meat whether or not he implicates himself within sixty minutes.” John folded his paper down, giving Fitz a simpering look. “Price you pay for getting involved with a FBI agent, kid.”

Leo rolled his eyes. John laughed.

“You know, I like you. If things hadn't gone sideways, I get we would have been friends. Grant would bring you to division barbecues, we'd chat, hit it off. We'd be great friends. But,” he sighed, flipping the paper back up. “Grant had to go looking into things he shouldn't have. So, now, you're just going to be dead.”

Seth made a sound, and Leo looked over, giving him a small, reassuring smile.

He didn't feel reassured.

He was pretty confident that Seth didn't either.

_Bang. Bang._

Brock jumped, sliding off the counter and landing on his feet. John dropped the newspaper to his lap. Seth's head whipped towards the doors leading out of the kitchen, into the main area, and Leo's did, too. Someone was banging on the glass at the front. Leo smirked. The idiots had forgotten to turn off the open sign, and the hours posted on the door out front clearly said that the shop was open until midnight. It wasn't even eleven yet. People needed their coffee fix.

_ Bang _ .

“You want to go see what that is?” John asked.

Brock stared at him. “What, dressed like this?”

“Just tell them that you're--”

There was a loud shrieking sound, and all of them turned to the back door. Leo knew that sound well, from taking the garbage out. The steel door, straining against its steel holdings as it was wrenched open. Both John and Brock went for their guns.

Everything slowed down for Leo. Everything so far tonight had been unreal, and now, there was this. Were they being rescued? He could only hope.

There was a bang, this time of gunfire, and red sprayed from Brock's thigh. He went down, but John was still up, reaching for his gun.

Leo jerked his arms forward, hard. There was a millisecond tug of resistance from the drawer, and then it ripped loose of its holdings. The momentum of it sent it careening over Fitz's head, and with a swing forward, he brought it slamming into John's shin as he pulled the trigger. Over the boom of the pistol, Fitz distinctly heard something crack. He wasn't sure if it was the drawer, or John's leg, but something cracked, and his shot went wide.

Seth was screaming behind his gag.

John fell to one knee, and Leo took his chance.

Heaving the drawer up again, he brought it over and across the man's head.

John hit the floor, out cold.

“Holy shit.”

Finally, Leo looked up. Grant was striding towards him, holstering his gun. He was dressed in black from head to toe, the same gear Leo had seen him wearing on the news, what seemed like forever ago. Behind him, Trip was standing with one foot on Brock's wrist, bent to take his gun. There was a flurry of movement from the door, and Bobbi walked in, immediately heading to Seth. She didn't stop herself from kicking Brock in the head on the way by.

Two apprehended captors, both he and Seth alive, and Grant innocent, kneeling in front of him and reaching for his wrists. Between staring at all the people in the room, he'd missed Trip handing Grant the handcuff keys.

“You're okay?” he asked, undoing one, and then the other. “They didn't hurt you, right? I know you're probably scared, but you--”

Leo cut Grant off, surging forward into his arms, ignoring the sharp press of the drawer's edges digging into his belly as he did. He wrapped his arms tight around the other man, pressing his face into his neck. Then, finally, he took a breath.

“I'm fine,” He said, quiet. Grant's arms wrapped around him, holding him steady. “We're okay. You're okay?”

“Thanks to you.”

Pulling back, Leo looked up at Trip. Another man had joined them and was helping Trip haul Brock to his feet, hands cuffed behind his back.

“That thing you did with the drawer? That was _wild_.” Trip said, flashing him a grin. “Good work. Grant was blocking me, wouldn't have been able to get a shot off to stop Garrett before he took his shot.”

“I just... Was trying to distract him.” Leo answered, looking from Trip to Grant. The man kneeling in front of him smiled.

“You probably just saved my life,” he said. “And helped save your co-worker's.”

Bobbi was helping Seth to his feet, talking to him in low tones.

“I'm so sorry you got mixed up in this.”

Leo shook his head. “Please. Don't give me apologies. You don't have to give me apologies.”

“This happened because--”

“--Because this guy is a psycho, and you figured him out, which he didn't like.” Leo finished. “That's it.”

Grant watched him carefully, eyes flicking over his face before he nodded. “All right.”

“Good.” The other man cut in. “Ward, I called in a squad, now that we have this under control. Hill's on her way.” He stepped around them, pulling Garrett's hands back to trap them in cuffs while he was still unconcious. “You should probably help these two call someone to come and get them, take them home once we've gotten statements. Paramedics are on their way too, so they can check their injuries. That other boy's got a bad blow to the head.”

“Yes, sir.” Grant said, helping Leo to his feet. He gently guided him back into the chair John had previously occupied. “You want to call Jemma?”

“I'll call Jemma.” Leo agreed. “But I'm staying until you leave.”

 

 

The coffeeshop had become a flurry of activity over the last hour. The paramedics had been the first to arrive, and then a barrage of other FBI agents. Seth's parents, Jemma, Skye and Lance had shown up at the same time. The girls had been wrecks, Crying, clinging Leo close. Jemma had kissed his cheeks at least three times since she'd gotten there. Lance had stood over the three of them, and spoken to Fitz in low, proud tones.

Ward had been involved in making sure Garrett and Rumlow were packed into transport after receiving mandatory medical attention. May and Coulson had taken over getting statements from Leo and Seth. Hill had taken him aside herself.

“That was a very lucky turn of events.” She said, standing outside the coffeeshop with him, watching while the squad took Garrett and Rumlow away. “If you hadn't gone digging, Garrett was crafting a very solid case against Hunter. He would have taken the fall, and Garrett would have gotten the chance to try again.”

Ward nodded. “I can't believe none of us saw it coming.”

Hill frowned. “That's the thing about Garrett. He was good. There was a reason he was labeled as one of the best of the best. He knew how to work the system, and we almost let him fall through those cracks.” She glanced his way. “You understand that I'm going to have to run a full interrogation on you, to make sure you weren't involved past this point?”

“Understood, ma'am.”

Hill smiled, thin. “Not tonight, though. In the morning. I think you know not to leave town.”

Her words were serious, but the spark in her eyes said otherwise. Ward smiled, and nodded. “I was honestly planning on going home to bed, after this.”

Hill laughed, quiet. “Taking Mr. Fitz with you?”

Ward shrugged, laughing quietly himself. Fitz was pretty much engulfed in a swarm of his nearest and dearest right now. It wouldn't be on him to tear him away from that. “Only if he wants.”

“Pretty impressive thing he pulled off with that drawer.”

“Yeah.” Ward thought back, remembering the image of Leo yanking that drawer from its moorings and driving it into Garrett's leg. “He didn't need me to rescue him.”

“I wouldn't say that.”

They both turned, looking back at the open shop door. Leo stood just inside the doorway. “Sorry for interrupting. The other agents said we were free to go, and I just wanted to let Grant know I'm... Going to wait for him. Lance is taking Jemma and Skye home, so...” He shrugged, non-committal. “I just wanted to let him know, I'm still here.”

Hill looked between them, and then waved a hand. “Go on, Agent Ward.”

He started. “Sorry?”

“Go on, take him home. I'll see you in the morning. The rest of us can take care of this.”

“You're sure?”

Hill leveled him with a look. “Don't make me say it again.”

“Right,” Ward held out his head for Fitz to take. “Got it. Come on, I parked a bit away from here. You're good to walk?”

“Just fine.” Fitz assured him.

The two of them set out across the parking lot, hand in hand. The night air was chill, thick from the rain that had fallen before. It clung to their clothes, and before they even reached the road, Grant tugged Leo in under his arm, keeping him close.

“I'm sorry.”

“I meant it when I told you not to apologise.” Leo said, looking up at him. “This wasn't your fault. Plus, you came barging in, Mr. Save the Day.”

Ward smiled. “You didn't need me to save you.”

“Ah, I needed the hand,” Leo countered. “And I'm glad you, Trip, and Bobbi all came.”

“I wasn't going to let him hurt you.” Grant said, and surprised himself by the steel in his voice. Leo seemed to take it at face value, and settled against his side the rest of the walk to the car. Once they had climbed in, he made himself comfortable, arm pressed against Grant's while he drove. Not interfering with his driving, not at all, but a constant presence, a constant reminder to them both that the other was there, and the other was safe.

They made it up to Grant's apartment in silence, and into his bedroom without more than fond smiles. In no time they were climbing under the sheets in the dark room. Grant pulled Leo in, shifting to accommodate the arm that circled his waist, and the way Leo laid his head carefully on Grant's shoulder, his breath tickling his collarbone.

“Maybe not the best time to say it,” he started, quietly. “But. I love you.”

Leo stilled against him, shifting and raising himself up on one arm. Grant could barely see the outline of his face in the gloom, but he suspected he might be smiling.

“I love you, too, Grant.”

Leo leaned down, and pressed the most gentle of kisses to his lips, both of them lingering for a moment, savouring the warmth rushing over them both in the wake of those words.

Then Leo shifted again, and settled back down, curled against Grant's side, and they went to sleep.

 


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks later, everything comes to a close.

“I've got the bill.”

Bobbi snorted, smiling as Lance pulled the check from their lunch across to his side of the table. “You'd better have the bill, with that big raise Izzy gave you.”

Lance gave her a flat look across the table, pulling his credit card from his wallet. “I still think, technically, you make more than I do. Considering you're a federal agent, and all.”

He was right, and they both knew it. Divorced or not, there were some things you just didn't forget about a person, or about the life you used to have with them. Bobbi's salary, she knew, wasn't exactly forgettable. No, she wasn't laughing, rolling in money every night, but it wasn't something to overlook. The fact that, knowing that, Lance was willing to put out the money, showed her a few things. One, he was willing to make the steps to repair the distance between them, and, if he was, so was she. There was still the matter of their divorce, the fact that they were separated and, for now, Bobbi intended it to stay that way. But it didn't mean she couldn't let him back in again, slowly. There had been a reason she had fallen in love with Lance in the first place, and it wasn't just the accent.

In fact, there were times when she was fairly sure the accent could actually be a con in the relationship, rather than a pro.

“I'm not at liberty to disclose the details of my salary.” Bobbi answered, with a smile, before leaning forward and folding her arms on the cafe table between them. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

Lance shrugged, handing his credit card and the check folder to their server. “It's Sunday, so not much. Why?” He grinned, the smarmy, cheeky grin that Bobbi could remember like the back of her hand. She had gotten so used to seeing it when they were together, that not having seen it while she was working Izzy's case and trying to believe he wasn't the attempted murderer, had been strange. Now, two weeks later, she was seeing it a lot more often.

She hated herself a little bit, but she had to admit that it made slipping and sliding back into the old ways a lot harder to fight against.

“Were you hoping to get some alone time with me?”

Then, of course, Lance had a habit of reminding her why a slow, careful, thought out slide back into the old ways was the best thing to do. Something that still gave her the chance to detour to the 'we're better as friends' route if need be, if things felt like they could go wrong.

Nothing entirely felt that way. Not yet. Bobbi had her hopes, but it was best not to act on them, all the time.

“Well, when you put it like that, I think you and I have a very different idea of alone time.” She answered. “But, what I was wondering, was if you wanted to take a drive down the coast with me. It'd be a few hours, but I'd like to get out of the city, maybe head to La Jolla. I wouldn't mind the company, so if you're willing...”

Bobbi trailed off, leaving the invitation open. It wasn't an invitation to more than that; Lance would be her companion on the drive. The fact of the matter was, though, that even if it wasn't an invitation to Lance's idea of alone time, it was still an invitation to get to know each other again. To find out where they both were, and examine where they could go from here. Bobbi had to admit, having Lance back in her life the last few weeks had been refreshing. It had almost made her feel like something had been off before, and now that he was around again, the pieces all felt settled.

Her life was far from boring, and after Izzy's case had wrapped, she'd gotten thrown into another one, but sometimes a little bit of boring, a little bit of mundane, a slice of every day normalacy, was exactly what the heart craved.

Precisely what the heart needed.

Lance smiled, tapping the table with his knuckles, once, before nodding. He waited until their server left, after dropping the check folder back off, and then he spoke, in a quiet, soft voice that Bobbi remembered so well from the good times. “I think I'd like to join you on that one, Bob.”

Bobbi smiled back. “Then let's get going.”

 

 

“You're on the home stretch now. Soon, you'll be a fully fledged doctor, and you'll be forgetting about all of us, here, lowly, working our temp jobs at programming companies...” Skye put a hand to her forehead, dramatic, and unseeing of the people around them, walking by, who gave her confused, wary looks. Jemma just laughed, looping her arm through Skye's other one as they walked. The mall was crowded, today, which made sense. It was a Sunday, and people tended to shop in force on the weekends. It just made it that much easier to walk close to her girlfriend as they wasted time until the big group dinner, that night. Fitz was supposed to be bringing Ward, and Ward was bringing Trip, who was bringing his girlfriend, who Jemma believed was named Raina, and Mack was bringing the new guy who'd just joined Hartley's Contracting, a man by the name of Joey Gutierrez. It was going to be a full house, even without Lance and Bobbi there. Jemma hadn't been all that surprised when Skye had relayed Lance's text. He and Bobbi had been slowly but surely getting closer, again, and he'd told them that morning before he'd left his, Skye, and Miles' apartment, that there was a chance he wouldn't be asking Bobbi to the dinner. Said he might want to see if she wanted to spend time, just the two of them.

Skye had made some mocking comment, then, about Lance being a big lovestruck softie, and he'd rolled his eyes and left.

Skye hadn't been wrong though. It was nice to see.

“You know that I won't be forgetting you, any time soon.” Jemma pointed out, drifting her fingertips along Skye's forearm, down to her hand. Their fingers laced together and Skye smiled over at her. The joke was gone from her eyes, but in its place Jemma was almost surprised to see something she could only call relief. “You didn't think that just because I'll be getting my residency soon, I would leave you behind? I mean, of course, it's going to be quite a lot of odd hours, and I'll be sleeping at strange times, but it isn't like I'm not going to have time for you.” She squeezed Skye's hand. “We're together, now. You and I. That's something I've wanted for I can't even say how long, Skye. I love you, and residency or no residency, that's not going to change.”

It was Skye's turn to laugh, and the sound of it sent a happy thrill through Jemma's body. “I know that. You can't blame me for worrying a little.”

“No.” Jemma agreed. “I can't. Also, you misspoke. That isn't a temp job anymore.”

The company Skye had been working for had taken her on as permanent staff earlier that week. It was a position that not only came with job security, but a raise. Things were going goo for both of them, and Jemma couldn't be happier. School was going very well, Skye's job was secured, and Fitz was not only in love, but safe, and sound. She wasn't the type to believe in superstition, and all the good in their lives did nothing more than make her feel a warm, constant happiness in her chest.

“So maybe I'll be keeping weird hours, too.” Skye pointed out. “Programming, and all that. I'll be up, nerding, with the best of them.”

Jemma laughed, again, and let Skye pull her into a jewelry store. There had been something Skye had said she wanted to do, but Jemma wasn't sure if it was this. Maybe something had just caught her eye, and she wanted to have a look.

Her curiosity was put to rest when Skye went right to the counter, grinning brightly at the clerk. The clerk grinned just as brightly back, with an edge of familiarity. This was an expected visit, Jemma was sure of it.

“Good to see you, again, Miss Potts.” She greeted. “This must be Jemma.”

Skye swung their linked hands slightly, grinning at Jemma. Jemma, for her part, was smiling, while trying to work out what was happening, here. “She is. Is it ready?”

“Absolutely.” The clerk answered. “Give me one moment, I'll go get it.”

Jemma waited until the clerk disappeared into the back room, and then squeezed Skye's hand, leaning in to whisper, “What's going on?”

“You'll see.” Skye answered, with a confident smile and a wink, as the clerk reappeared. She handed Skye a long, thin box, glancing between the two of them.

“I imagine you'll want to do this on your own, then. It's paid, so you're free to go.” She gave Jemma a warm smile. “I really hope you like it, dear.”

“She will.” Skye answered, looking from the box, to Jemma. “I mean... I hope she will. Thanks, Grace. Come on.” She tugged Jemma by the hand, back out into the flow of people in the mall, nearly dragging her until they reached a short hallway, one that led to the cleaning closets, Jemma imagined, judging by the pictures on the signs. Skye led them down it a ways, and then turned to Jemma, opening the box.

Inside, nestled on a bed of white satin, was a gorgeous silver chain, on which hung a key-shaped pendant, inlaid with three small sapphires. Her birthstone.

“I know it isn't that fancy, but, with this raise, and everything, I wanted to buy you something nice. I know they're your birthstones, so it seemed nice and, I mean, like I said last week, if there was a key to my heart, it would be yours. So.” Skye looked up at Jemma, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. She didn't need to say it. The question was clear in her eyes. ' _Do you like it?_ '

Jemma was confident that the tears welling in her eyes were answer enough.

“I love it.” She said, sliding her arms around Skye's waist, pulling her in. “And I love you.”

It was just like them, to kiss, soft and gentle and full of meaning, in a mall hallway leading to janitors' closets. It was just like them, and Jemma loved it.

 

 

“When's the last time you let yourself stay in bed this long on a Sunday?”

Grant frowned, obviously thinking about it. Leo's smile grew until he was full-on grinning, and he laughed, rolling over to slung his arm around Grant's waist. “You can't actually remember, can you? Mr. Save the Day.”

Grant laughed, then, looking over at him. “No, I can't. Is that bad?”

Leo thought about it for a second, resting his cheek against Grant's bicep. The sheets were twisted around his waist, dangerously close to exposing his ass, and if they'd been in his apartment, with the bedroom door open like it was, he might have felt some modesty.

If they'd been in his apartment, with the bedroom door open like that, though, he wasn't sure they would still be in bed, thanks, in part, to that modesty.

“Not exactly bad.” Leo decided, finally. “You're a hard worker, and you don't really stop to look out for yourself all that often.” Lifting, his head, he raised his eyebrows, genuinely curious. “How does it feel to spend a day being truly lazy, for once?”

What Leo hadn't expected was for Grant to laugh, and ask, “You think we're being lazy?”

He had a point.

“Okay... Maybe a little bit lazy, and a lot... uh.” Leo grinned. “Hedonistic.”

“Ohhh.” Grant pointed at him. “There's your crossword puzzle winning word, right there. I wouldn't disagree, though. I wonder if we've annoyed any of my neighbours, yet.”

“Probably just jealous.” Leo shrugged, closing his eyes. His fingers traced a senseless pattern against Grant's stomach. He twitched, slightly, and Leo smiled. Ticklish. He'd been learning that about Grant. He had a few sensitive spots for that, most notably his neck. “I haven't exactly been quiet about how good you are...”

“No, that you haven't.” Grant admitted. “Not that I'm complaining.”

Thinking back, it seemed almost like a whole different life that Leo had lived, months before, before he and Grant had gone on their first date. He'd pined after FBI Hottie for so long, it had just seemed like a stupid crush that would eventually wane. There was no way it would go anywhere, and he would get over it, long before FBI Hottie even caught on that he was being mooned after. Never in a million years had he thought that he would work up the courage to take any of the steps he had, and he absolutely hadn't seen this coming.

Spending a Sunday in bed with FBI Hottie, both of them reluctant to get up, dozing, cuddling, and, three times, now, making love.

If the Leo Fitz of a half a year ago had been this coming, he probably would have imploded from the anticipation.

Even with everything that had happened a few weeks back, Leo wouldn't trade this for the world. Grant had turned out to be what he'd imagined and more, and while his life definitely wasn't boring, and wasn't necessarily safe, Leo wouldn't have wanted it much different. He could have gone without ending up a kidnapping victim, but that threat seemed to have passed. Tori was back at work, and Grant had told him that she was making sure the steps were taken to make sure that he was just as protected as the spouse of an agent should be. Not that they were married, and, this far into their still relatively new relationship, it wasn't even close to on the table. But it was reassuring to know.

It was also reassuring that Grant had stopped, for the most part, apologising a half dozen times a day. It wasn't his fault, what had happened, and he'd done everything in his power to make it right. Leo was safe, and that was what mattered.

They were both safe.

“Mm,” Leo cuddled in close, pillowing his head on Grant's chest. “I'm not complaining, either.”

“That part I think they know, too.” Grant answered, his voice soft, quiet. It didn't take long until his breathing evened out, under Leo's ear, a signal he had nodded off. It was nice, being like this. Able to cuddle close and nap, and feel safe and taken care of.

When Leo woke again, the clock on the nightstand showed that nearly an hour had passed. Grant's fingers were petting through his hair, his curls a mess, and when Leo lifted his head, he wasn't surprised to find the other man watching him with a look Leo had come to know, deep in his bones, was absolute affection and adoration. “Got an hour before we should start getting ready for that dinner, huh?”

“Mhmm...” Grant's fingers brushed against the tip of his ear. “Have to meet up with Trip and Raina, too, before we head over there.”

“Going to be a big group.” Leo commented, shifting until he could lean down and kiss Grant, slow and deep, savouring the softness of his lips and the pliancy of him, lazy and sleep-warm. “Should be fun.”

“Mhmm.” Grant agreed, distracted, one hand drifting down Leo's arm, the other curved at the side of his neck, guiding him down for another kiss. Leo didn't resist, couldn't have, kissing him back, giving him everything he wanted and taking what he desired. His body felt loose, warm, open, and at the same time, tense, everything whirling through his system and into Grant while they traded kisses.

They stayed like that for a while, until Leo could feel his fingers trembling, from the cocktail of love and adoration, and undercurrent of desire. Grant didn't miss it, rolling him onto his back, hands drifting down, pulling Leo's legs up around his hips while he settled between them. It was close, and warm, and intimate, and Leo didn't hesitate to reach up, pulling Grant down for another kiss.

“Slow,” he whispered against Grant's lips, feeling more than seeing the other's nod. “I want this one to last until we get home tonight.” With his hands on Grant's shoulders, and his legs around his hips, it was hard to miss Grant's shiver. Leo smiled. “Sound good?”

“Very good.” Grant whispered back. His eyes were open, watching Leo's face, looking at him like he was the most precious, intriguing thing he'd ever seen.

“I love you.” Leo murmured.

“I love you, too.” Grant answered, his voice soft.

Then he kissed Leo again, and moved, and Leo's low, throaty whine got lost against his tongue.

No, Leo Fitz couldn't have seen what had happened the last few weeks coming, but while he wrapped his arms around Grant Ward's shoulders, and gasped against his mouth, he knew he wouldn't have wanted the surprise ruined.

This was just too good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. Over a year in process, through some of the most turbulent time of my life. I have to say, even if there are things I would change if I could, writing Masterpiece has been an experience I'm happy to have had, and happy to have shared with all of you. Thank you for sticking it out with me, waiting long periods between updates while real life soundly kicked my ass. Thank you for every kudos and comment you left, for the bookmarks, the subscriptions. Thank you for the questions on tumblr, showing me that people did actually care about this fic. When I was having a hard time finding the motivation to continue, that kept me going.  
> And finally, thank you to Steph. My partner in everything, the Fitz to my Ward, my muse and my personal ass-kicker.  
> I hope you've all enjoyed the fic. I know I enjoyed writing it.  
> Much love.  
> -Chris


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